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GEORGE    MEREDITH 
SOME    CHARACTERISTICS 


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GEORGE   MEREDITH 


SOME  CHARACTERISTICS 


BY 

RICHARD   LE   GALLIENNE 


WITH    A    BIBLIOGRAPHY 
BY 

JOHN    LANE 


JOHN    LANE 

THE    BODLEY    HEAD 

LONDON    AND    NEW    YORK 

1905 


SIXTH  EDITION,  REVISED 


•  •       • 

•  •       •    ' 
'•  •       •   • 

•  •  •• •  • 


Printed  by  Ballantyne,  Hanson  &*  Cow 

Edinburgh  <Sf*  London 


^l 


/^9 


TO  HIM 

WHO  IS  THE  SUBJECT  OF  THE  FOLLOWING  PAGES 

WE  MAKE  THIS  JOINT  OFFERING 

IN  THE  HOPE 

THAT  IT  MAY  SHEW  US  WORTHY  TO  BE  COUNTED 

AMONG  A  CERTAIN 

"  ACUTE  AND  HONOURABLE  MINORITY  " 


Preface 

The  following  essays  make  no  attempt  either  to 
"  place  "  Mr.  Meredith  or  to  be  a  kind  of  critical 
microcosm  of  his  work,  nor  do  they  presume  to 
speak  with  any  air  of  finality  thereon.  There 
are  but  three  or  four  living  Englishmen  in  whom 
such  Olympian  attitude  would  escape  the  absurd. 
Nor  do  I,  on  the  other  hand,  as  I  have  elsewhere 
profanely  phrased  it,  come  singing  **The  Mere- 
dithyramb."  My  whole  attempt  is  that  of  a  lover 
of  the  works  to  give  expression  to  the  faith  that 
is  in  him,  and  I  have  written  rather  for  those 
who  are  already  spending  their  lives  in  a  vain 
endeavour  to  convert  masculinity  to  The  Egoist 
than  in  the  hope  of  being  myself  an  instrument 
of  conversion. 

If  the  use  of  writing  for  those  who  are  already 
"  in  the  place  of  hope  "  be  questioned,  one  may 
reasonably  ask  if  the  most  seductive  of  all  literary 
pleasures  does  not  consist  merely  in  the  compar- 
ing of  impressions  and  sensations.  My  attempt 
is  just  that,  to  say  some  things  which,  doubtless, 
no  few  lovers  of  George  Meredith  could  have  said 

vii 


Preface 

better,  but  which  as  yet  they  have  kept  to  them- 
selves. If  my  misses  rouse  them  to  make  hits, 
well  and  good,  for,  if  one  cannot  be  witty  oneself, 
it  is,  on  authority,  something  to  be  ^'  the  cause 
that  wit  is  in  other  men."  Of  course,  I  have  no 
objection  to  a  stray  convert  or  two,  and  if  indeed 
I  should  succeed  in  making  such,  all  the  better — 
for  them. 

I  may  say  further,  more  particularly,  that  I 
have,  in  the  main,  concerned  myself  more  with 
Mr.  Meredith's  genius  than  his  talent — if  the  dis- 
tinction be  not  too  old-fashioned — not  the  mass 
of  his  work,  but  only  that  part  of  it  which  I  con- 
sider peculiarly  his  own. 

Of  his  Mrs.  Chumps  and  his  Master  Gammons 
I  have  had  little  to  say,  and  my  conscience  smites 
me  at  the  last  moment  that  I  have  done  rather 
shabby  justice  to  the  great  Berry.  From  my 
point  of  view  it  matters  little  whether  his  country- 
men are  or  are  not  as  good  as  Mr.  Hardy's,  or 
whether  the  brogue  of  this  or  that  supernumerary 
be  correct;  for,  in  my  judgment,  it  is  not  by  such 
characters  that  he  is  to  stand  or  fall.  They  are 
the  product  of  a  talent  that  could  turn  itself  to 
anything,  we  have  had  them  before  from  others ; 
but  it  is  by  his  Sir  Willoughby  and  his  great 
women,  types  all  his  own,  that  he  is  to  be  judged. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  Lippincotfs 

viii 


Preface 

and  Time  for  permission  to  reprint  here  pages, 
which  have  already  appeared  in  their  respective 
magazines;  and  also  to  Mr.  William  Morton 
Fullerton  for  the  pleasant  pages  on  George 
Meredith  in  America  which  conclude  the  volume. 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE. 

October  1890. 


Contents 


PAGH 

Style  and  Aim i 

"The    Egoist,"    "Richard    Feverel,"    and    the 

Novels  Generally 14 

"The  Comic  Muse" 50 

"The  Pilgrim's  Scrip" 69 

Woman  in  the  Novels 84 

"Modern  Love"  and  Nature-Poetry    .        .        .  102 

The  Critics 152 

Postscript:  1899 175 

George  Meredith  and  His   Reviewers  (1850-99), 

A  Bibliography  by  John  Lane  .        .      i.-lxxxiv 

Some  Notes    on    George   Meredith    in   America, 

BY  W.  Morton  Fullerton  .         .         .  Ixxxv.-xci 


Illustrations 

Portrait  of  George  Met-eaith,  from  a  photograph  by  Mr. 
Hollyer  .....  Frontispiece 

The  Chalet  at  Boxhill,  Dorking,  from  a  sketch  by  Mr. 
W.  Maxse  Meredith       .         .         .        Facing />.  i68 


"  Assured  of  worthiness  we  do  not  dread 
Competitors  :  we  rather  give  them  hail 
And  greeting  in  the  lists  where  we  may  fail: 
Must,  if  we  bear  an  aim  beyond  the  head  ! 
My  betters  are  my  masters  :  purely  fed 
By  their  sustainment  I  likewise  shall  scale 
Some  rocky  steps  between  the  mount  and  vale  : 
Meanwhile  the  mark  I  have  atid  I  will  wed. 
So  that  I  draw  tlie  breath  of  finer  air. 
Station  is  nought,  nor  footways  laicrel-strewn. 
Nor  rivals  tightly  belted  for  the  race. 
Good  speed  to  them  /    My  place  is  here  or  there  ; 
My  pride  is  that  amotig  them  I  have  place  : 
And  thus  I  keep  this  instrument  in  tune." 

INTERNAL  HARMONY, 
*'  So7igs  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth,"  p.  163. 

"  Surely  we  owe  a  little  to  Time,  to  cheer  his  progress  ;  a  little  to 
posterity,  and  to  our  country.  Dozens  of  writers  will  be  in  at 
yonder  yawning  breach  if  only  perusers  will  rally  to  the  philosophic 
standard.  They  are  sick  of  the  woodeny  puppetry  they  dispense,  as 
on  a  race-course,  to  the  roaring  frivolous.  Well,  if  not  dozens, 
half  dozens :  gallant  pens  are  alive;  one  can  speak  of  them  in  the 
plural.  I  venture  to  say  that  they  would  be  satisfied  with  a  dozen 
for  audience,  for  a  commencem.ent." 

DIANA  OF  THE  CROSS  WA  YS,  chap.  I.  p.  15. 


I 

Style  and   Aim 

The  shortest  way  to  the  distinguishing  excellence 
of  any  writer  is  through  his  hostile  critics  ;  for 
it  is  always  the  quality  they  most  diligently 
attack.  But,  as  that  is  invariably  the  newest 
thing  the  writer  possesses,  this  is  little  to  be 
wondered  at,  for  the  majority  of  critics,  in  all 
places  and  times,  are  men  of  the  last  generation 
before  genius,  and  the  new  is  naturally  as 
puzzling  to  them  as  to  all  of  us.  That  precious 
offending  quality  is  generally  the  most  significant 
of  all  qualities,  style.  Most  significant,  of  course, 
because  if  we  seek  out  the  reason  of  a  style,  we 
are  at  once  in  the  heart  of  the  writer's  mystery, 
at  once  face  to  face  with  his  peculiar  artistic 
message.  As  all  style  is  organic,  we  have  but  to 
track  the  springs  of  that  organism  to  come  upon 
the  urgent  impulse  to  expression,  the  quality  of 
which  marks,  of  course,  a  writer's  individuality. 

I  A 


«     «     •    •  ,  r    • 


Style  and   Aim 


Now  these  tests  are  peculiarly  applicable  to 
the  work  of  Mr.  George  Meredith.  His  style  is 
at  once  a  pillar  of  cloud  and  a  pillar  of  light, 
it  has  kept  his  books  for  many  years  in  first 
editions,  but  it  has  made  those  first  editions  pre- 
cious as  the  revelation  of  arcana.  And  the  reason 
of  it  is  The  Egoist.  Without  the  daring  metaphor 
which  is  its  most  marked  and  powerful  quality, 
it  would  have  been  impossible  to  make  us  see  a 
drama  of  such  infinitesimal  subtleties,  by  no 
other  means  could  vibrations  so  infinite  have 
been  registered.  And  in  that  delicate  power  we 
at  once  discover  the  central  quality  of  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's genius.  Whatever  else  he  can  do,  and  he 
can  do  ever  so  many  wonderful  and  beautiful 
things,  here  is  what,  so  to  say,  he  came  to  do, 
whatever  else  was  done  or  left. 

The  passion  of  his  genius  is,  indeed,  the 
tracing  of  the  elemental  in  the  complex  ;  the 
registration  of  the  infinitesimal  vibrations  of 
first  causes,  the  tracking  in  human  life  of  the 
shadowiest  trail  of  primal  instinct,  the  hair- 
breadth measurement  of  subtle  psychological 
tangents  :  and  the  embodiment  of  these  results 
in  artistic  form.  "In  our  fat  England,  the  gar- 
dener Time  is  playing  all  sorts  of  delicate  freaks 


Style  and   Aim 


in  the  hues  and  traceries  of  the  flower  of  life, 
and  shall  we  not  note  them  ?  "  he  writes  in  one  of 
those  passages  in  Sandra  Bellonty  where  in  the 
person  of  "  The  Philosopher  "  he  occasionally 
cocks  a  comical  eye  at  a  bewildered  public.  It 
is  with  the  drama  of  those  highly  wrought  types 
that  Mr.  Meredith  is  concerned,  to  show  us  how 
'*  behind  the  veil  of  our  human  conventions 
power  is  as  constant  as  ever,"  and  in  their 
apparently  unexpressive  features  to  "  find  the 
developments  and  the  eternal  meanings " —  a 
tragedy  all  the  more  impressive  for  being  blood- 
less, a  comedy  all  the  more  irresistible  because 
uninterrupted  by  guffaws.  It  follows  that  the 
quest  of  his  style  is  intensity,  that  it  should  be 
vividly  suggestive  rather  than  carefully  definitive 
— all,  indeed,  the  reverse  of  the  neat  French 
ideal  of  finality,  with  its  San  Graal  of  "  the 
unique  word."  With  Mr.  Meredith  it  is  rather 
the  one,  or,  maybe,  the  fifty  analogies,  all 
brought  together  and  thrown  down  in  a  gene- 
rous redundancy,  so  that  the  one  end  of  con- 
veying his  own  intense  impression  to  the  reader 
may  be  achieved.  "  The  art  of  the  pen,"  says 
Diana,  in  a  well-known  passage,  "  is  to  rouse 
the    inward   vision,    instead    of    labouring    with 

3 


Style  and  Aim 


a  drop-scene  brush,  as  if  it  were  to  the  eye  \ 
because  our  flying  minds  cannot  contain  a  pro- 
tracted description.  That  is  why  the  poets,  who 
spring  imagination  with  a  word  or  phrase,  paint 
lasting  pictures.  The  Shakespearean,  the  Dant- 
esque,  are  in  a  line,  two  at  most." 

Mr.  Meredith's  method  is,  indeed,  that  of  the 
poets  and  all  great  imaginative  workers.  His 
style  may  be  said  to  be  the  result  of  that  process 
expressed  in  Pippa  Passes,  of  following  in  one 
art  an  ideal  conceived  in  another,  a  process  with 
which  we  are  familiar  in  the  relations  of  poetry 
and  painting,  and  to  which,  doubtless,  we  owe 
some  other  products  of  our  new  imaginative 
prose.  Such  a  style  was  the  only  possible 
medium  for  his  matter — matter  too  intricate  for 
verse,  and  too  elusive  for  "  pedestrian "  prose. 
Nothing  but  vivid  metaphor  could  light  up  for  us 
such  strange  untrodden  regions  of  the  subjective 
as  those  into  which  he  loves  to  take  us ;  for  we 
can  only,  of  course,  understand  the  unfamiliar  in 
terms  of  the  familiar,  and  if  "  our  flying  minds 
cannot  contain  a  protracted  description  "  of  the 
objective,  how  much  less  can  we  hope  to  hold 
the  elusive  impressions  of  the  subjective  by  such 
means-.      As  well  hope   to  take  down  the  rapid 

4 


Style  and   Aim 


words  of  a  fluent  speaker  in  longhand.  The 
essential  quality,  then,  of  Mr.  Meredith's  work, 
in  his  prose  as  in  his  verse,  is  a  great  metaphor. 
One  wishes  above  all  things  to  avoid  over- 
accentuation  in  this  present  hey-day  of  the 
superlative,  but  one  can  hardly  help  asking 
whether  since  Shakespeare  there  has  been  a 
handling  of  imaginative  phrase  more  truly  mas- 
culine than  Mr.  Meredith's.  Greater  artists, 
both  in  prose  and  verse,  of  course,  there  have 
been,  but  in  that  one  quality  of  flashing  a  picture 
in  a  phrase,  of,  so  to  say,  writing  in  lightning, 
who  are  Mr.  Meredith's  rivals  ?  And  it  is  a 
power  of  great  suppleness,  it  is  great  in  the 
heaviest  sword-work,  but  it  can  play  round  a  fair 
head  and  leave  a  thistle-down  curl  on  the  ground 
with  the  most  consummate  grace  ;  "  images  that 
stun  the  mind  like  bludgeons  "  there  are  on  every 
page,  but  there  are  others  also  delicate  as  the 
notes  of  a  zither.  So  convincing  is  it  too,  that 
often  as  it  flashes  its  light  upon  some  hidden 
track  of  thought,  or  inaccessible  lair  of  sensation, 
it  hardly  seems  to  be  metaphor  at  all,  but  the 
very  process  of  thought  and  feeling  literally 
described.  The  distinction  between  objective 
and  subjective  is  overleaped,  and  we  seem  to  see 

5 


Style  and  Aim 

matters  of  spiiit  and  nerve  with  our  very 
jr\  physical  eyes.  Indeed  that  is  what  such  art  as 
Mr.  Meredith's  must  do,  for,  in  proportion  as  it  is 
art,  will  the  relevancy  of  that  distinction  diminish, 
if  it  be  true,  as  surely  it  is,  that  the  subjective 
once  embodied  in  art  really  becomes  objective. 

It  is  this  very  realistic  closeness  to  the  fact,  I  am 
persuaded,  that  has  misled  many,  unfamiliar  with 
the  nuances  of  experience  with  which  it  deals, 
to  charge  Mr.  Meredith  with  fantasticality.  His 
fancy  is  prolific  and  delightful  indeed,  or  we 
must  have  missed  Shagpat  from  our  shelves,  but 
the  metaphor  I  speak  of  comes  of  a  higher 
power  with  which  Mr.  Meredith  is  no  less  richly 
endowed — imagination.  His  images  have  roots, 
they  are  there  for  another  service  than  fancies. 
Moreover,  he  has  apparently  discovered  the 
secret  of  a  mental  process  which  operates  more 
or  less  with  us  all,  but  of  which  we  are  only 
occasionally,  some  perhaps  never,  conscious  ;  for 
is  it  not  true  that  all  impressions  come  to  the 
most  unimaginative  through  a  medium  of  imagi- 
nation more  or  less  fantastic  in  its  influence,  and 
that  thus  the  most  commonplace  occurrence 
often  assumes  the  quaintest  guise.     Through  the 

subtlety   of    his   imagination    Mr.    Meredith    has 

6 


Styl 


d  Ai 


e  ana  /iim 


come  into  possession  of  this  distorting  glass,  and 
it  is  either  because  we  have  never  reahsed  the 
process  in  ourselves,  or  are  unable  to  recognise 
it  again  in  his  characters,  that  he  may  some- 
times seem  puzzling  or  overstrained.  In  short, 
his  imagination  is  subtle  enough  to  embody  the 
workings  of  imagination  in  others.  An  example 
will  best  illustrate  my  meaning,  and  I  will  take 
one  that  has  been  a  favourite  with  certain  un- 
sympathetic critics,  from  The  Egoist. 

"  *  You  are  cold,  my  love  ?  you  shivered,'  " 
said  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  as  he  walked 
across  his  park  one  morning  with  his  betrothed 
Clara  Middleton,  then  in  the  throes  of  her  first 
effort  to  break  off  her  engagement. 

**  *  I  am  not  cold,'  said  Clara,  *  some  one,  I 
suppose,  was  walking  over  my  grave.'  The  gulf 
of  a  caress  hove  in  view  like  an  enormous 
billow  hollowing  under  the  curled  ridge.  She 
stooped  to  a  buttercup  ;  the  monster  swept  by." 

This  image  has  more  than  once  been  selected 
for  scorn,  from  the  impression,  I  suppose,  that  it 
is  merely  a  piece  of  extravagant  fancy,  a  wilful 
euphuism,  whereas  it  is  surely  an  example  of  a 
most  subtle  realism.  To  a  sensitive  girl  such  as 
Clara,  in   such   an    attitude   as  hers  to   her  be- 

7 


Style  and  Aim 


■^ 


trothed,  already  beginning  to  dread  his  loathed 
attentions,  it  would  really  be  in  some  such  large 
image  of  fright  that  a  threatened  caress  would 
menace  her ;  especially  as  her  fear  had  already 
set  her  imagination  in  a  state  of  ferment :  and  to 
have  simply  said  that  she  shrank  from  his  caress 
and  escaped,  would  have  been  merely  the  state- 
ment of  an  onlooker  and  have  given  us  little  idea 
of  her  internal  tumult  as  she  did  so.  We  should 
only  have  seen  her  shrink,  whereas  now  we  /eel 
her  do  so.  I  am  convinced  that  the  majority  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  so-called  fantasticalities  have  such 
true  imaginative  basis,  and  that  if  the  reader 
cannot  realise  it,  the  fault  is  certainly  his  own. 
Not  that  I  would  say  that  Mr.  Meredith  never 
misses.  Like  every  one  else,  he  has  *'  the  defects 
of  his  qualities,"  and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to 
place  one's  fingers  on  images  that  seem  the  result 
of  his  employing  his  method  in  uninspired 
moments — a  certain  bewildering  and  unbeautiful 
personification  of  Old  Time,  for  instance,  on  an 
early  page  of  The  Tragic  Comedians — but  such 
are  quite  inconsiderable  set  against  page  after 
page  of  brilliant  success. 

So   far  in   speaking   of   Mr.    Meredith's   style 
I   have   referred   to    that   quality  in    his   writing 


Style   and   Aim 


which  is  most  distinctly  his  own — that  which 
forces  us  to  talk  of  "  Meredithese  " — and  have 
dealt  with  it  in  relation  to  the  subject  matter, 
through  stress  of  which,  I  conceive,  it  was  born. 
But  though  its  genesis  was,  I  think,  really  as  I 
have  indicated,  he  nevertheless  applies  it  to 
many  a  charming  use  other  than  that  for  which 
it  grew  ;  while  he  is  capable  of  putting  it  aside 
altogether — as  in  Vittoria  or  Rhoda  Fleming — 
and  writing  Saxon  simple  as  a  song.  As  in  the 
case  of  all  men  who  have  the  greater  gift,  he  has, 
as  I  have  said,  a  most  remarkable,  an  Elizabethan 
power  of  fancy.  No  one  is  fonder  of  sword- 
exercise  for  its  own  sake.  Of  how  he  loves  to 
beget  beautiful  things  in  mere  wantonness,  to 
discover  the  soul  of  a  thing,  as  it  were,  in  play, 
the  well-known  '*  leg  "  passage  or  the  chapter  on 
**  an  aged  and  great  wine "  in  The  Egoist^  are 
familiar  examples.  Another  delicious  instance 
in  the  same  book,  being  of  more  quotable  size,  I 
shall  venture  to  copy  here. 

"  He  placed  himself  at  a  corner  of  the  doorway  for  her  to 
pass  him  into  the  house,  and  doted  on  her  cheek,  her  ear,  and 
the  softly  dusky  nape  of  her  neck,  where  this  way  and  that 
the  little  lighter-coloured,  irreclaimable  curls  running  truant 
from  the  comb  and  the  knot — curls,  half-curls,  root-curls,  vine 
ringlets,  wedding-rings,  fledgeline^  feathers,  tufts  of  down,  blown 

9 


Style  and   Aim 


wisps — waved  or  fell,  waved  over  or  up  or  involutedly,  or 
strayed,  loose  and  downward,  in  the  form  of  small  silken  paws, 
hardly  any  of  them  much  thicker  than  a  crayon  shading,  cun- 
ninger  than  long  round  locks  of  gold  to  trick  the  heart." 

Even  when  he  sets  himself  for  a  serious 
characterisation  there  is  still  the  same  playful 
profusion  of  means.  Witness  the  following 
masterly  description  of  a  style  with  which  Mr. 
Meredith's  own  has  much  of  essential  relation- 
ship. Without  the  allusion  to  the  Lectures  on 
Heroes  would  any  one  need  to  be  told  the  name 
of  the  writer  referred  to  ?  The  passage  occurs 
near  the  beginning  of  Beaiichamp^s  Career. 

"  His  favourite  author  was  one  writing  on  Heroes,  in  (so  she 
esteemed  it)  a  style  resembling  either  early  architecture  or 
utter  dilapidation,  so  loose  and  rough  it  seemed  ;  a  wind-in- 
the-orchard  style,  that  tumbled  down  here  and  there  an  appre- 
ciable fruit  with  uncouth  bluster  ;  sentences  without  com- 
mencements running  to  abrupt  endings  and  smoke,  like  waves 
against  a  sea-wall,  learned  dictionary  words  giving  a  hand  to 
street-slang,  and  accents  falling  on  them  haphazard,  like 
slant  rays  from  driving  clouds  ;  all  the  pages  in  a  breeze,  the 
whole  book  producing  a  kind  of  electrical  agitation  in  the 
mind  and  joints.     This  was  its  effect  on  the  lady." 

Applied  to  nature  the  same  style  has  given  us 

description   as   new  as    it  is   always   vivid,   and 

often  throbbing  with  a  beauty  of  passionate  light 

and   bloom  ;    that   wonderful    sunset   in  Richard 
V  lo 


Style   and   Aim 


Feverel,  or  this  graphic  bit  descriptive  of  rain  in 
the  country,  from   The  Egoist: 

"  Rain  was  universal ;  a  thick  robe  of  it  swept  from  hill  to 
hill ;  thunder  rumbled  remote,  and  between  the  ruffled  roars  the 
downpour  pressed  down  on  the  land  with  a  great  noise  of  eager 
gobbling,  much  like  that  of  the  swine's  trough  fresh  filled." 

But,  to  turn  again  to  larger  considerations,  Mr. 
Meredith's  style  is  not  only  significant  of  the 
subtle  work  its  master  had  to  do,  but  also  of  the 
temper  in  which  he  has  done  it.  Mr.  Meredith 
is  a  realist,  but  a  realist  who  uses  metaphor  is  not 
greatly  to  be  feared.  He  is  a  realist  as  all  the 
great  artists  have  been,  not  after  the  modern 
pattern  of  those  *'  whom  the  world  imagines  to  be 
at  nature's  depths  "  because  they  "  are  impudent 
enough  to  explore  its  muddy  shallows,"  but  after 
the  manner  of  the  poets.  His  is  that  imaginative 
realism  which,  after  much  unhappy  experience 
of  another  kind,  we  are  again  coming  to  recognise 
as  not  simply  the  only  realism  but  the  only  art. 
It  follows,  therefore,  that  with  all  his  subtleties 
of  analysis,  Mr.  Meredith  is  no  pessimist,  as  all 
the  small  realists  must  be.  On  the  contrary, 
the  work  of  Mr.  Browning  is  not  more  robustly 
optimistic.  How  much  of  spiritual  comfort 
we  all  owe    to    the  poet    of    Rabbi    Ben  Ezra 


Style  and   Aim 


"bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion"  has  but 
lately  set  us  sorrowfully  testifying,  yet  I  feel  that 
to  some  minds  Mr.  Meredith's  optimism  will  be 
still  more  helpfully  convincing,  because,  though 
he  feels  that  "  we  have  little  to  learn  from  apes," 
he  fearlessly  accepts  the  most  melancholy  results 
of  modern  science  in  a  way  that  Mr.  Browning, 
of  course,  refused  to  do.  Really  the  faith  of  each 
is  at  base  the  same,  as  all  faith  is  one,  that 
instinctive  reliance,  in  the  face  of  all  apparent 
contradiction,  that  "  all's  right  with  the  world," 
which  genius  rarely  misses  ;  but  the  weight 
of  assurance  each  brings  to  another  must,  of 
course,  depend  on  that  other's  needs,  and  the 
relativity  of  those  to  the  weight  of  contradiction 
overcome. 

Mr.  Meredith's  attitude  may  be  forcibly  summed 
up  in  two  of  his  own  sentences,  one  from  the  lips 
of  Diana — **  who  can  really  think  and  not  think 
hopefully  ?  " — and  the  other,  an  example  of  in 
vino  Veritas^  from  those  of  Mr.  Pole — *'  No  one 
has  said  the  world's  a  jolly  world  so  often  as  I 
have.  It's  jolly  !  "  It  would  be  impossible  to 
think  more  ruthlessly  than  Mr.  Meredith;  he  has 
been  ever  resolute  in  tearing  from  life  every 
vestige  of  sentimentality,  yet  it  has  been  to  leave 


12 


Style  and  Aim 


us  with  all  the  deeper  impression  of  its  high  and 
mystic  significance. 

"You  destroy  the  poetry  of  sentiment,  Dr. 
Middleton,"  said  Whitford. 

"  To  invigorate  the  poetry  of  nature,"  was  the 
answer. 


13 


II 

^^The  Egoist,"  "Richard  Feverd," 
and  the  Novels  generally 

If  I  am  right  in  my  statement  of  the  nature  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  pecuHar  art,  there  can  hardly  be 
any  doubt  that  of  all  his  books  The  Egoist  is  its 
most  absolute  product  ;  for  therein  he  gives 
himself  up  entirely,  without  the  smallest  attempt 
at  compromise  with  a  "  gallery "  public,  to  his 
intellectual  passion,  on  the  track  of  that  most 
fundamental  of  all  our  instincts,  the  lust  of  self. 
There  are  no  clowns,  at  least  of  the  old-fashioned 
sort,  and  no  intervals  whatever  for  refreshment. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  like  it  or  leave 
it,  sit  up  with  it  through  the  small  hours,  or  doze 
over  it  at  noonday.  There  is  no  middle  course.  If 
it  is  not  predestined  for  one,  one  can  no  more  live 
through  a  chapter  than  write  it  ;  if  it  is — well, 
we  break  our  hearts  in  trying  to  write  about  it. 

14 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

Self!  Selfishness  !  What  comparatively  placid 
words  they  used  to  be,  words  to  be  birched 
out  of  us  by  fifteen,  when  a  primitive  dragonish 
hunger  for  biggest  apples  and  largest  slices  is 
supposed  to  give  place  to  the  gentlemanly  in- 
stincts ;  a  thing  to  quote  Dr.  Watts  about  and  be 
sent  to  bed  for,  a  vice  to  be  tamed  by  a  prefix, 
changed  through  all  its  snaky  syllables  by  wearing 
the  crown  of  a  decorous  negative  :  as  little  under- 
stood as  was  the  circulation  of  the  blood  before 
Harvey.  Yes  !  Mr.  Meredith  is  the  Harvey  of 
the  Ego.  But  though  a  philsopher  with  a  tem- 
perament of  exceptional  sensitiveness  might  have 
made  and  tabulated  his  discoveries,  no  one  but  an 
artist  of  great  power  could  have  given  them  that 
vivid  form  in  which  only  can  a  living  sense  of 
their  portentous  significance  be  impressed. 

Stated  abstractly,  the  information  that  each  of 
us  has  a  South-sea  Islander  somewhere  within 
us  would  hardly  interfere  with  our  appetites ; 
we  would  take  it  as  tranquilly  as  we  do  Sir 
Thomas  Browne's  Pseudodoxia  Epidemica.  But, 
handled  as  Mr.  Meredith  has  handled  it,  it  is 
very  different,  it  is  nothing  short  of  a  terror.  Not 
simply  to  tell  us,  but  to  make  us  by  his  dreadful 
lightning  see  the  vampire  in  all  of  us,  see  with  what 

15 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

horrid  channels  connected,  by  what  almost  imper- 
ceptible arteries,  self  circulates  through  every 
corner  of  our  being  ;  to  show  us  the  face  of  Mr. 
Hyde  in  the  most  trifling  of  its  wilful  acts,  to 
make  us  shudder  at  such  as  we  would  at  murder, 
and,  indeed,  to  feel  them  no  less,  nay,  perhaps 
more,  than  that — as  the  essences  of  poisons 
are  the  most  deadly — this  it  was  to  write  The 
Egoist. 

This  may  sound  strong,  I  wish  it  were  ten  times 
stronger  ;  and  to  justify  it  it  may  be  thought  that 
the  Egoist  should  appear  Caliban-backed  and 
cloven-footed,  and  a  young  country  squire,  of 
handsome  presence,  of  manners  and  culture — 
well,  it  cannot  be  he  !  Besides,  good  women  love 
him.  Yes  !  for,  as  his  clever  friend  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart  Jenkinson  phrased  it,  "  You  see  he  has 
a  leg." 

"  There  it  is,  and  it  will  shine  through  !  He  has  the  leg  of 
Rochester,  Buckingham,  Dorset,  Suckling ;  the  leg  that  smiles, 
that  winks,  is  obsequious  to  you,  yet  perforce  of  beauty  self- 
satisfied  ;  that  twinkles  to  a  tender  midway  between  imperious- 
ness  and  seductiveness,  audacity  and  discretion  ;  between  '  you 
shall  worship  me  '  and  '  I  am  devoted  to  you '  ;  is  your  lord, 
your  slave,  alternately  and  in  one.  It  is  a  leg  of  ebb  and  flow 
and  high-tide  ripples.  Such  a  leg,  when  it  has  done  with  pre- 
tending to  retire,  will  walk  straight  into  the  hearts  of  women. 
Nothing  so  fatal  to  them.  Self-satisfied  it  must  be.  Humble- 
ness does  not  win  multitudes  or  the  sex." 

i6 


*'  The  Egoist,"  etc. 

This  was  on  the  occasion  of  his  coming  of  age, 
when  his  egoism  was  as  yet  at  gambol  like  a 
young  tiger,  though  it  was  soon  to  show  its  fangs. 
At  this  time  a  report  went  abroad  that  he  was 
engaged  to  a  certain  dashing  young  lady  of 
wealth  and  beauty,  by  name  Constantia  Durham, 
while  others  whispered  of  Laetitia  Dale,  the 
daughter  of  a  retired  army-surgeon  living  on  Sir 
Willoughby's  estate,  "portionless  and  a  poetess." 
*'  Here  she  comes  with  a  romantic  tale  on  her 
eyelashes,"  was  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson's 
portrait  of  her.  And,  certainly,  there  was  much 
to  colour  this  report,  for  they  had  been  boy  and 
girl  playmates ;  she  had  written  verses  in  honour 
of  his  majority,  and  he  was  unmistakably  atten- 
tive to  her.  A  third  rumour  gives  us  a  first 
comical  glimpse  of  egoism — "  a  story  of  a  brilliant 
young  widow  of  the  aristocracy  who  had  very 
nearly  snared  him."  "  A  widow  ?  "  he  said  on 
hearing  of  it.  "  I  !  "  The  story  was  to  be  con- 
tradicted in  positive  terms.  "*A  widow!' 
straightening  his  whole  figure  to  the  erectness  of 
the  letter  I."  Meanwhile,  Miss  Durham  ''  had 
been  nibbled  at,  all  but  eaten  up "  by  rivals, 
notabl}^  by  a  young  Captain  Oxford  ;   and,  being 

warned  of  this,  Sir  Willoughby  at  once  proposed 

17  B 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

and  was  accepted — though  his  sense  of  niceness 
was  affected  at  thus  taking  her  after  the  soiHng 
pursuit  of  others.  "  She  had  not  come  to  him 
out  of  cloistral  purity,  out  of  perfect  radiancy.  .  .  . 
He  wished  for  her  to  have  come  to  him  out  of  an 
egg-shell,  somewhat  more  astonished  at  things 
than  a  chicken,  but  as  completely  enclosed  before 
he  tapped  the  shell,  and  seeing  him  with  her  sex's 
eyes  first  of  all  men  " — a  demand  of  spurious 
niceness  which  Mr.  Meredith  again  and  again, 
throughout  the  book  and  elsewhere,  traces  to  its 
springs  in  "  infinite  grossness  " — "  the  ultra- 
refined  but  lineally  great-grandson  of  the  Hoof." 
But,  on  the  contrary,  "  she  talked  frankly  of  her 
cousins  and  friends,  young  males  !  "  "  The  dust 
of  the  world,"  the  soiling,  circumscribing  world, 
the  natural  enemy  of  the  Ego,  was  on  her.  How- 
ever, he  was  engaged,  and  though  Laetitia  did 
love  him,  had  loved  him  from  girlhood,  still  she 
was  able  to  join  in  the  chorus  of  congratulation, 
for  she  had  never  dared  to  hope  for  herself,  and 
could  not  bear  to  think  him  wrong  ;  she  loved 
him,  indeed,  as  Mr.  Meredith  expresses  it,  with 
the  not  uncommon  female  "  ecstasy  of  the  devotee 
of  Juggernaut."      But  a  surprise  was  in  store  for 

her  and  the  county.      Suddenly  it  was   told   that 

i8 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

Miss  Durham  had  run  away  with  Captain  Oxford 
and  was  his  wife  ;  and  then  came  Laetitia's  Httle 
hour.  Fortification  against  the  possible  sneers  of 
that  world,  so  despised  and  yet  so  feared,  was  pro- 
vided by  the  circulation  of  a  story  to  the  effect 
that,  far  from  his  being  jilted,  Sir  Willoughby  had 
never  really  cared  for  Constantia,  but  accepted 
her  as  his  mother's  choice,  and  that  her  action 
sprang  from  a  frenzied  jealousy  of  Laetitia,  with 
whom  he  had  taken  care  to  be  seen  at  church 
and  out  v/alking  at  the  earliest  possible  moment 
after  his  learning  the  news.  It  was  with  the  air 
of  "  a  man  thus  broken  loose  from  an  unhappy 
tangle  to  return  to  the  lady  of  his  first  and 
strongest  affections,"  that  he  came  back  to 
Laetitia.  For  several  months  a  quiet  courtship 
ensued  between  them,  and  county  gossip  once 
more  rippled  tranquilly  over  a  certainty — to  be 
rudely  rufQed  again  by  the  sudden  news  one 
morning  that,  almost  without  a  word,  Sir  Wil- 
loughby had  left  England  for  a  tour  of  the  globe. 
The  inference  against  Laetitia  seemed  brutally 
obvious.  And  the  county  would  have  pitied  her, 
says  Mr.  Meredith,  and  thanked  her  for  a  sensa- 
tion if  she  had  only  *'  attempted  pathos,"  but  she 
was  too  proud  for  that,  *^  the  opportunity  passed 

19 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

undramatised,"  and,  retiring  within  herself,  she 
took  up  her  cross  as  one  of  those  **  patiently  starv- 
ing women "  of  whom  Mr.  Meredith  writes  so 
tenderly,  and  of  whom  she  was  to  be  the  type. 

Sir  Willoughby  had  gone  abroad  accompanied 
by  his  cousin  Vernon  Whitford,  whom  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  described  as  "  Phoebus  Apollo  turned 
fasting-friar,"  a  phrase,  says  Mr.  Meredith,  which 
"  painted  the  sunken  brilliancy  of  the  lean  long- 
walker  and  scholar  at  a  stroke."  A  kind  of  George 
Warrington,  I  think,  James  Thomson  well  calls 
him,  and  like  George  too  he  was  the  victim  of  an 
early  matrimonial  indiscretion.  He  was  one  of 
those  illuminating  dependents  whom  Sir  Wil- 
loughby loved  to  keep  about  him  as,  so  to  say, 
altar-candles.  To  have  "  a  poet,  still  better  a 
scholar,  attached  to  your  household,"  to  date  his 
prefaces  from  Patterne  Hall,  was  an  additional 
candle,  as  M.  Dehors,  his  French  cook,  for 
instance,  was  another.  The  two  cousins  wrote 
home  accounts  of  their  travels,  the  one  really 
serving  (in  the  eyes  of  "  the  Patterne  ladies,"  that 
is,  Sir  Willoughby's  mother  and  two  sisters)  but 
as  a  foil  to  the  other.  Vernon  **  endeavouring 
sadly  to  digest  all  he  saw  and  heard,"  in  his 
modest  student  way,  Sir  Willoughby,  in  the  great 


20 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

comic  British  fashion,  "  holding  an  Engh'sh  review 
of  his  maker's  grotesques."  Ah  !  but  one  was  a 
Whitford,  the  other  a  Patterne  !  Their  return  at 
the  end  of  three  years  is  the  occasion  of  our  first 
piercing  ghmpse  into  the  heart  of  egoism. 
Driving  through  his  park  on  the  morning  of  his 
return,  the  first  friend  he  meets  is  Laetitia,  out 
with  school-children  gathering  flowers. 

"  He  sprang  to  the  ground  and  seized  her  hand.  '  Laetitia 
Dale  !  '  he  said.  He  panted.  '  Your  name  is  sweet  English 
music  !  And  are  you  well  ? '  The  anxious  question  permitted 
him  to  read  deeply  in  her  eyes.  He  found  the  7nan  he  sought 
there,  squeezed  him  passionately,  and  let  her  go,  saying,  '  I  could 
not  have  prayed  for  a  lovelier  home-scene  to  welcome  me 
than  you  and  these  children  flower-gathering.  I  don't  believe 
in  chance.  It  was  decreed  that  we  should  meet.  Do  not  you 
think  so  ?  ' 

Laetitia  breathed  faintly  of  her  gladness." 

I  question  if  any  honest  male  ever  read  this 
passage  without  its  catching  his  breath,  and 
making  him  put  down  the  volume  for  a  moment 
or  two's  thought — to  take  it  up,  perchance,  a 
different  man.  Here,  in  a  phrase  from  which 
one  reels  sick  as  from  a  blow,  is  the  mainspring, 
here  we  first  realise  what  this  egoism  is ;  and 
we  take  up  the  book  again  eagerly  on  the  watch 
for  every  sensitive  vibration,  some  of  us,  may 
be,  like  an   invalid,    when,   having  at  length   in 

21 


a 


The  Egoist,"  etc. 


some  bulky  pharmacopoeia  come  across  his  own 
particular  trouble,  he  rushes  hungrily  at  all  the 
symptomatic  details.  Let  us  follow  this  scene  a 
line  or  two  further.  Talking  rapturously  of  the 
English  green, 

"  '  It  is  wonderful.  Leave  England  and  be  baked,  if  you 
would  appreciate  it.  You  can't,  unless  you  taste  exile  as  I 
have  done — for  how  many  years  ?     How  many  ? ' 

'  Three,'  said  Laetitia. 

'  Thirty  !  '  said  he.  •  It  seems  to  me  that  length.  At  least  I 
am  immensely  older.  But  looking  at  you,  I  could  think  it  less 
than  three.  You  have  not  changed.  You  are  absolutely  un- 
changed, I  am  bound  to  hope  so,  I  shall  see  you  soon.  I 
have  much  to  talk  of,  much  to  tell  you.  I  shall  hasten  to  call 
on  your  father.  I  have  specially  to  speak  with  him.  I — what 
happiness  this  is,  Laetitia !  But  I  must  not  forget  I  have  a 
mother.  Adieu,  for  some  hours — not  for  many  1 '  He  pressed 
her  hand  again.     He  was  gone." 

What  could  poor  Laetitia  think  ?  "  What 
but — !  she  dared  not  phrase  it  or  view  it."  Yet 
"  at  their  next  meeting  she  was  '  Miss  Dale.' " 
And  soon  this  game  of  cat  and  mouse  was  to  be 
made  all  the  more  inhuman  by  the  introduction 
of  an  unconscious  third,  in  the  shape,  of  course, 
of  another  Constantia  Durham — Clara  Middleton, 
the  one  beautiful  daughter  of  a  certain  Dr. 
Middleton,  a  stately  member  of  our  wealthy 
British  theocracy,  a  type  of  rich  humour  whom 
we   shall  have    to    consider  in   another  chapter. 

22 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

The  news  came  through  young  Crossjay  Patterne, 
a  patronised  son  of  a  contemned  cousin  "in  the 
marines  "  (a  distinguished  commander),  to  whom 
Vernon  had  undertaken  to  act  as  tutor,  and  who 
had  brought  brightness  into  Laetitia's  hfe  by 
being  ''sent  out  "  from  the  hall  to  lodge  with  her 
and  her  father.  Sir  Willoughby,  before  seeing 
him,  decided  against  having  him  at  the  hall,  "  pre- 
dicting that  the  boy's  hair  would  be  red,  his  skin 
eruptive,  and  his  practices  detestable."  He  proved 
to  be  a  charming  lad,  however,  one  of  those 
''thorough  boys"  Mr.  Meredith  loves,  and  it  was 
one  day  out  bird-nesting  near  Upton  Park,  fifteen 
miles  away,  that  he  saw  Sir  Willoughby  riding 
with  a  young  lady.  Sir  Willoughby  had  taken 
no  notice  of  his  salute  as  they  passed,  but  the 
young  lady  had  turned  round  to  smile  at  him. 
"  The  hue  of  truth  was  in  that  picture  ! "  It  was 
not  long  before  gossip  confirmed  the  sickening 
suspicion,  and  it  was  placed  beyond  doubt  by  a 
flying  visit  of  the  Doctor  and  his  daughter  to  the 
hall,  with  the  effect  that  Vernon  even  turned 
painter,  saying  of  the  new  queen — "  she  gives 
you  an  idea  of  the  mountain  echo  "  ;  and  of  course 
Mrs.  Mountstuart's  portrait  was  not  wanting. 
But    somehow   for   once  she    missed,   and    even 

23 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

displeased.      "  Dainty  rogue  in  porcelain,"  need  1 
say,  was  the  unfortunate  phrase. 

"  •  Why  rogue  ?  '  said  Sir  Willoughby. 
'  I  said — in  porcelain,'  she  repHed. 

•  Rogue  perplexes  me.' 
'  Porcelain  explains  it. ' 

'  She  has  the  keenest  sense  of  honour.' 

'  I  am  sure  she  is  a  paragon  of  rectitude.' 

'  She  has  a  beautiful  bearing.' 

'  The  carriage  of  a  young  princess  !  ' 

'  I  find  her  perfect. ' 

•And  still  she  may  be  a  dainty  rogue  in  porcelain.* 

'  Are  you  judging  by  the  mind  or  by  the  person,  ma'am  ? ' 

'Both.' 

'  And  which  is  which  ?  ' 

'  There's  no  distinction,' 

•  Rogue  and  mistress  of  Patterne  do  not  go  together,' 

•  Why  not  ?  She  will  be  a  novelty  to  our  neighbourhood 
and  an  animation  of  the  Hall. ' 

'  To  be  frank,  rogue  does  not  rightly  match  with  7ne.'" 

But  Sir  Willoughby  had  no  intention  of  quite 
abandoning  Laetitia  this  time,  his  egoism  had 
long  passed  kittenhood  now,  it  was  ''  a  thing  of 
teeth  and  claws  "  indeed. 

"  He  had,  in  the  contemplation  of  what  he  was  gaining,  fallen 
into  anxiety  about  what  he  might  be  losing.  She  belonged  to 
his  brilliant  youth ;  he  was  a  man  who  lived  backward  almost 
as  intensely  as  in  the  present ;  and,  notwithstanding  Laetitia's 
praiseworthy  zeal  in  attending  to  his  mother,  he  suspected  some 
unfaithfulness :  hardly  without  cause :  she  had  not  looked  paler 
of  late,  her  eyes  had  not  reproached  him  ;  the  secret  of  the  old 
days  between  them  had  been  as  little  concealed  as  it  was  ex- 
posed.    She  might  have  buried  it,  after  the  way  of  women. 


^*The  Egoist,"  etc. 

whose  bosoms  can  be  tombs,  if  we  and  the  world  allow  them  to 
be  ;  absolutely  sepulchres,  where  you  lie  dead,  ghastly.  Even 
if  not  dead  and  horrible  to  think  of,  you  may  be  lying  cold 
somewhere  in  a  corner.  Even  if  embalmed  you  may  not  be 
much  visited.  And  how  is  the  world  to  know  you  are 
embalmed  ?  " 

So  he  talks  with  her  about  Italy,  how  often  he 
has  wished  to  be  her  cicerone  there,  and  then — 
O!  he  wants  her  opinion  of  "a  Miss  Middleton," 
he  has  such  reliance  on  her  "intuition  of  cha- 
racter," and  what  it  is  to  have  such  a  friend  to 
come  to  in  a  woman  !  The  "  Platonic  "  idea  is 
not  impossible  she  has  taught  him.  "Wives  are 
plentiful,  friends  are  rare.  I  know  how  rare  ! " 
Then  a  little  sentimental  depreciation  of  life  in 
halls  in  favour  of  that  in  a  cottage  like  hers,  at 
which  she  shakes  her  head,  and  he  rejoins  : 

"  '  You  may  know  me,'  bowing  and  passing  on  contentedly. 
He  stopped — '  But  I  am  not  ambitious.' 

•  Perhaps  you  are  too  proud  for  ambition,  Sir  Willoughby. ' 

'  You  hit  me  to  the  life  !  ' 

He  passed  on  regretfully,  Clara  Middleton  did  not  study 
and  know  him  like  Laetitia  Dale." 

Clara  did  not,  she  "  did  otherwise  conceive  of 
love,"  and  already  she  was  feeling  that  "  some- 
thing," in  the  earliest  days  of  his  courtship  at 
Upton  Park,  for  which  she  had  yet  found  no 
name.      A  "  whirlwind   wooing "   at  last   caused 

23 


(( 


The  Egoist/'  etc. 


them  to  be  plighted,  though  that  something  still 
weighed  upon  her. 

Perpetual  discourses  on  the  ideal  love,  a  daily 
catechism  on  the  child's  *'  do  you  really — really 
love  me  ? "  pattern,  needing  an  ever  closer 
embrace  of  assurance,  till  within  the  first  day  or 
so  of  their  engagement  he  had  reached  the 
astonishing  demand  that  even  "  beyond  death  " 
she  would  still  be  his  alone — **  '  His  widow,'  let 
them  say  ;  a  saint  in  widowhood  " — while  that 
monster  world  above  all  was  anathema.  This  was 
what  his  wooing  had  become.  In  short,  he 
^'  desired  to  shape  her  character  to  the  feminine 
of  his  own,"  and  she  preferred  to  be  herself. 
**  She  would  not  burn  the  world  for  him ;  she 
would  not,  though  a  purer  poetry  is  little  imagin- 
able, reduce  herself  to  ashes,  or  incense,  or 
essence,  in  honour  of  him,  and  so,  by  love's  trans- 
mutation, literally  be  the  man  she  was  to  marry." 

This  constant  "  anghng  for  the  first  person  in 

the   second "    on   Sir  Willoughby's   part,  by  his 

occasional  unconcealed  irritation  with  unsuccess, 

gave  her,  one  day,  a  hint  of  his  endeavour,  and 

she  answered  to  his  thought  with  "  It  is  not   too 

late,  Willoughby."      This   wounded  him   and   he 

forthwith    "  lectured    her   on    the    theii]e   of   the 

26 


"The   Egoist,"  etc. 

infinity  of  love."  "  How  was  it  not  too  late?  They 
were  plighted ;  they  were  one  eternally ;  they 
could  not  be  parted.  She  listened  gravely,  con- 
ceiving the  infinity  as  a  narrow  dwelling  where 
a  voice  droned  and  ceased  not.  However,  she 
listened.      She  became  an  attentive  listener." 

After  two  or  three  months  of  this,  Dr.  Middle- 
ton's  stay  at  Upton  Park  came  to  an  end  and  Sir 
Willoughby,  on  the  plea  of  finding  him  a  suitable 
residence  in  the  neighbourhood,  induced  him  to 
come  and  be  his  guest  in  the  interval.  Clara 
tried  to  resist,  but  in  vain,  and  with  their  arrival 
at  Patterne  Hall  this  "  comedy "  really  begins. 
All  so  far  has  been  but  a  marshalling  of  the 
dramatis  personce,  taking  up  some  fifty  pages ;  in 
the  next  five  hundred  we  are  to  see  them  act. 

Further  than  this  I  do  not  here  propose  accom- 
panying the  reader.  I  have  followed  the  story 
so  far  because  I  felt  it  was  the  best  way  of  giving 
any  one  unacquainted  with  the  book  an  idea  of 
the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Meredith  has  dealt  with 
his  chief  character — a  manner  which  no  general- 
ising could  well  convey,  and  I  think  that  in  the 
foregoing  extracts  he  will  have  been  able  to  gain 
a  living  conception  of  what  fashion  of  man  the 
Egoist  was.     All  the  subtleties  of  his  psychology, 

^7 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

of  course,  are  not  exhibited,  for  they  can  only  be 

traced  by  minutely  following  the  interplay  of  the 

various  individualities,  by  the  working  out  of  the 

problem  that  soon  presents  itself — will  Clara  have 

the  courage  and  the  power,  now  that  she  has  the 

resolution,  to  win  her  freedom  again,  or  will  Sir 

Willoughby,  with  the  one  powerful  conventional 

weapon  she  has  given  him,  her  plighted   troth, 

backed  by  endless  resource  of  sophistry  and  the 

lower  subterfuges  to  which  his  egoism  is  capable 

of  sending  him,  win  the  day  ?     And,  remember 

it  is   civilised   warfare,   where    etiquette   has   to 

be  observed,  and   one   cannot  end  the  game  by 

dashing    the    board    on   the   carpet.      It  is  that 

essential  drama  to  which  actions,  in  the  ordinary 

sense,  stand   but   as  the  scoring   in   the  pauses 

of  the  game,  the  external  result  of  the  unseen 

play  of  opposing  individualities.      This    scoring 

is  practically  the  whole  of  the  "  popular  "  drama, 

which   would    matter  little   if  it    stood   for   any 

real  signification,  but  as  it  proceeds  simply  at  the 

caprice   of  the  marker,  is,  indeed,    nothing  more 

than  a  playing  with  the  register — well,  of  course, 

it  makes  that  drama  utterly  valueless  to  any  one 

who  seriously  cares  about  the  game  of  life  at  all. 

To    abandon    imagery,    lest    the   reader,    like 

28 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

Cecilia,  should  conceive  himself  "addressed  as  a 

primitive    intelligence,"  the    plot   of   77?^  Egoist 

grows   as  the   outcome   of  character,  instead   of 

being   manipulated   according    to    the    will    and 

pleasure  of  the  novelist.      The  novelist   watches 

and  records,  but  never  interferes.    It  is,  of  course, 

the  difference    between    men    and    women    and 

"  wooden  puppetry."      **  The  catastrophe  "  comes 

"  pat "  as  a  mathematical  result,  and  one  has  the 

satisfaction  of  that  complete  artistic  whole,  which, 

I  should  say,  is,  generally  speaking,  more  within 

the    reach    of    so-called    *'  subjective "    than   of 

'*  objective  "  drama.      This  question   of    plot  is 

indeed  an  easier  one  to  settle  in  the  case  of  the 

former  than  of  the  latter,  what  happens  in  a  man 

is  less  a  question  for  the  arbitrary  invention  of 

the  novelist  than   what   happens  to  him  ;  and   I 

think  this  is  felt  when  one  comes  to  compare  the 

ending  of  The  Egoist  with  the  ending  of  Richard 

Feverel   or   Beauchamp's    Career.     There    is    an 

element  admitted  into  the  working  out  of  the  two 

latter  stories,  which,  of  course,  is  operative  in  the 

subjective  world  as  well,  but  hardly  as  constantly 

or  as  volcanically — that  of  Chance.    That  it  is  no 

unimportant  element  of  life  we  know,  but  how 

and  when  it  is  to  be  introduced   into   art  is   the 

29 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

question,  one  which  is  as  old  as  it  seems  un- 
answerable. Our  modern  method  of  dealing 
with  it  would  seem  to  be,  that  the  particular 
chances  to  which  the  dramatis  personce  are  sub- 
jected shall  be  such  as  are  not  unlikely  to  arise 
out  of  their  characters.  Then,  of  course,  there 
are  various  degrees  of  chances  in  our  lives,  some 
so  frequent  as  to  be  usual  and  unsurprising — 
Richard's  meeting  with  Lucy  by  the  river,  for 
instance — and  such  are  not,  therefore,  disturb- 
ances in  art.  But  to  be  struck  by  lightning  on 
the  way  home  to  dinner  is  another  degree  of 
chance,  no  less  unusual  than  disagreeable.  That 
Beauchamp  should  die  by  drowning  as  he  did 
was,  of  course,  quite  a  possibility  in  the  case  of  a 
man  so  unselfish  and  intrepid,  but  in  spite  of  the 
fine  note  of  tragic  irony  such  as  is  life's  own  so 
struck,  one  feels  no  such  inevitability  about  his 
end  as  comes  with  the  last  chapter  of  The  Egoist. 
It  does  not  seem  of  the  same  colour  with  the  rest 
of  the  book,  but  merely  a  wilful  darkening  of  the 
woof.  Beauchamp  might  have  been  so  drowned 
on  his  way  home  to  wife  and  happiness,  but  the 
chances  were  a  thousand  to  one  against  it. 

In  Richard  Fever  el  we  are  confronted   with  a 
similar  perplexity,  and  though   I  doubt  if,  to  set 

30 


^'The  Egoist,"  etc. 

matters  right,  it  would  now  be  any  one's  choice  to 
lose  a  scene  drawn  with  such  vividness  of  power 
as  that  of  Richard's  terrible  parting  from  his 
wife,  yet  as  a  part  of  a  whole,  I,  for  one,  cannot 
feel  it  homogeneous.  If  one  could  have  been  pre- 
pared for  these  catastrophes  by  some  manner  of 
undefined  foreshadowing,  they  might  very  likely 
have  impressed  one  as  fit ;  and,  if  it  be  retorted 
that  life  gives  no  such  warnings,  one  can  only 
answer  that,  after  all.  Art  is  but  a  compromise. 

Mr.  Meredith  names  The  Egoist  a  *'  comedy  in 
narrative,"  but  in  doing  so  he  uses  the  word 
comedy  with  a  significance  which  is  rarely 
respected,  and  of  which  it  will  be  necessary  to 
speak  further  in  the  next  chapter.  Suffice  it 
here  to  say  that  mere  satire,  humour,  or  any 
species  of  fun-making,  are  all  very  distinct  from, 
however  related  to,  that  significance.  These  but 
result  from  the  working  of  the  comic  spirit  which 
in  itself  is  merely  a  detective  force  ;  they  are,  of 
course,  included  in  this  present  comedy,  but  they 
are  far  from  all.  When  one  comes  to  consider 
Sir  Willoughby  one  realises  how  far.  He  is  Mr. 
Meredith's  great  study  in  that  Comic  Muse  which 
he  invokes  in  his  first  chapter,  and  yet  he  hardly 
keeps  the  table  on  a  roar.      At  least,  laughter  is 

31 


a 


The  Egoist,"  etc. 


not  the  only  emotion  he  excites  ;  tears  and  terror 
rainbowed  by  laughter  might  figure  our  compli- 
cated impression.  A  tragic  figure  discovered  for 
us  through  the  eye  of  comedy.  It  is  certainly 
comic,  in  the  customary  sense,  to  see  that  great- 
mannered  sublimity,  that  ultra-refined  sentimen- 
talism  reduced  to  paradox  by  the  exposure  of  its 
springs ;  but  the  laugh  is  only  at  the  incon- 
sistency, it  can  hardly  face  the  fact.  And  to  see 
Sir  Willoughby  on  his  knees  vainly  imploring 
that  Laetitia,  who  has  all  through  served  but  as 
an  "old-lace  "  foil  for  Clara,  and  with  utter  diffi- 
culty at  last  winning  her,  not  for  her  sake  either, 
but  for  fear  of  the  world,  the  east  wind  of  the 
world,  and  no  longer  the  worshipful  Juggernaut 
Laetitia  of  old,  but  Laetitia  enlightened  and 
unloving, — all  this  is  comic  of  course  ;  to  see 
tables  turned  is  always  comic,  but  we  must  not 
forget  that  life  is  before  them,  and,  as  Hazlitt 
says,  "  When  the  curtain  next  goes  up  it  will  be 
tragedy  " — if  the  situation  on  which  it  falls  can 
be  called  anything  else. 

Sir  Willoughb}^  indeed  inspires  that  greatest 
laughter  which  has  its  springs  in  the  warmth 
and  the  richness  of  tears.  If  he  is  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's  greatest   comic  study,  he  is,   at   the  same 

32 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

time,  his  most  pathetic  figure.  Of  course,  his 
pathos  is  not  of  the  drawing-room  ballad  order, 
any  more,  indeed,  than  his  comedy  would 
"select"  for  a  "library  of  humour" — those 
fields  are  full,  Mr.  Meredith  rarely  strives  there, 
possibly  for  the  same  reason  that  Lander  strove 
not.  But  those  for  whom  he  has  any  appeal 
must  feel  with  his  creator  that  "  he  who  would 
desire  to  clothe  himself  at  everybody's  expense, 
and  is  of  that  desire  condemned  to  strip  himself 
stark  naked,  he,  if  pathos  ever  had  a  form,  might 
be  taken  for  the  living  person.  Only  he  is  not 
allowed  to  run  at  you,  roll  you  over  and  squeeze 
your  body  for  the  briny  drops.  There  is  the 
innovation,"  The  pathos,  as  everything  else  in 
the  book,  is  essential.  That  is,  of  course,  why 
The  Egoist  is  so  pre-eminently  Mr.  Meredith's 
typical  book,  and  Sir  Willoughby  his  typical 
characterisation  ;  and  there  could  hardly  be  a 
more  victorious  justification  of  a  method.  One 
great  wonder,  that  before  reading  might  well 
have  been  a  great  fear,  is  that,  despite  the  end- 
less dissection  of  Sir  Willoughby,  the  revelation 
of  every  *'  petty  artery  "  and  tissue,  he  still  keeps 
his  outline  and  remains  whole  and  living  to  our 
eyes,  when  he  might  so  easily  have  resulted  in 

33  c 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

an  anatomical  diagram,  where  one  cannot  grasp 
the  whole  for  the  parts,  and  the  human  form  dis- 
appears beneath  nets  of  veinwork  and  muscle. 
If  it  were  otherwise,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
understand  how  such  a  monster  could  be  tolerated 
in  any  society,  but  as  it  is,  while  we  have  the 
fullest  knowledge  of  his  ghastly  inner  constitu- 
tion, we  are  yet  able  to  see  him  as  those  about 
him  did  ;  the  courtly  gentleman,  generous  to,  if  a 
little  exacting  from  his  dependents,  with  many 
charms  that  might  well  keep  that  something 
twisted  in  him,  the  existence  of  which  he  himself 
suspected  as  little  as  any  one,  from  exposure,  save 
under  stress  of  the  very  closest  relations. 

Besides  his  primary  importance  as  one  more 
great  addition  to  Art's  **  men  and  women,"  Sir 
Willoughby  has  another  significance  as  a  satire  on 
masculinit}^;  he  is  the  type  of  it,  "the  original  male 
in  giant  form  " ;  and  though  a  world-wide  type, 
especially  does  he  stand  for  the  British  male,  at 
once,  perhaps,  the  finest,  and  certainly  the  most 
obnoxious  representative  of  his  sex.  His  silly  airs 
of  omnipotence,  his  dull-eyed  numb  conceit,  his 
ridiculous  solemnities,  his  boorish  exclusiveness, 
his  spurious  niceties  and  sham  moralities,  his 
utter  fundamental  earthiness   and  vulgarity  and 

34 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

all  the  various  too-well-known  characteristics 
that  rear  an  ass's  head  upon  the  paws  and' 
haunches  of  the  national  lion  ;  these  that  it  is  to 
be  feared  satirists  will  continue  to  satirise  without 
sending  a  ray  of  awakening  into  his  dull  self- 
satisfied  head,  these  Mr.  Meredith  has  satirised 
with  a  laughter  that  surely  would  reach  the  ears 
of  the  creature,  if  they  were  but  as  sensitive  as 
they  are  long.  In  all  his  books  Mr.  Meredith 
has  amused  himself  with  this  ridiculous  John  Bull, 
whose  good  qualities,  let  us  not  forget,  he  can 
embody  with  no  less  vigour  ;  but  not  even  in 
Diana^  where  he  strikes  so  manfully  for  woman- 
hood against  that  masculinity  incarnate,  the 
British  Bench,  has  he  dealt  him  such  a  blow. 

Of  the  other  characterisations  in  the  book,  each 
so  firm  and  living,  of  the  dialogue  that  made 
James  Thomson  exclaim  upon  it  as  the  greatest 
ever  written  in  the  English  tongue,  of  the  wit  and 
the  poetry  of  style,  of  these  space  forbids  writing 
here,  though  I  hope  to  refer  to  them,  in  a  general 
way,  later  on.  One  perfection,  however,  should  be 
here  noted,  the  artistic  unity  of  the  whole  book  ; 
an  unity  which  perhaps  no  other  of  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's books,  except  Rhoda  Fleming,  achieves, 
though  probably  in   the   opinion  of  most  Diana 

.   35 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

would  be  a  third.  But,  speaking  for  myself,  and 
much  as  I  cherish  Diana^  the  conclusion  somehow 
troubles  me.  I  cannot  read  it  without  incon- 
gruous reminiscence  of  the  last  line  in  The  Angel 
in  the  House.  The  Egoist,  however,  excites  no 
such  feelings,  the  colours  all  blend,  and  the 
"  composition  "  is  perfect.  Dramatic  grouping  so 
fit,  action  so  organic,  and,  as  I  have  said,  a 
de'noument  so  related,  is  surely  a  high  bid  for 
perfection  in  the  novelist's  art. 

Yet,  if  The  Egoist  is  thus  the  book  which  of  all 
Mr.  Meredith's  books  commands  wonder,  Richard 
Feverel  is  that  which  wins  our  love.  For  love  of 
a  book,  need  one  say,  is  often  independent  of  its 
perfection  or  imperfection  as  art — "subject  "  has 
yet  so  many  adherents  among  us.  The  subject 
of  The  Egoist  is  recondite,  though  near  enough, 
the  subject  of  Richard  Feverel  is — a  first  love. 
The  difference  of  appeal  to  many  will  be  almost 
that  between  the  appeal  of  prose  and  poetry.  I 
spoke,  a  page  or  two  back,  of  what  I  conceived  to 
be  an  artistic  defect  in  the  latter.  If  that  prevents 
my  considering  Richard  Feverel  successful  as  a 
whole,  it  can  in  no  way  affect  it  in  its  brilliant 
parts.  Mr.  Meredith  names  it  in  a  sub-title,  "  A 
History  of   Father  and  Son,"  and  it  is  evidently 

36 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

in  the  light  of  a  story  of  an  experiment,  namely, 
that  of  the  training  of  a  youth  upon  a  philosophic 
system,  that  he  would  have  us  regard  it.  I,  how- 
ever, do  not  feel  that  it  is  thus  we  are  to  come  at 
its  importance.  This  motive  distinctly  influences 
the  plot,  and  gives  us  much  wisdom  on  the  sub- 
ject of  education,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
plot  is  made  to  fit  it  rather  than  to  flow  from  it, 
and,  apart  from  the  flaw  referred  to  above,  I 
regard  the  plot  of  Richard  Feverel  as  its  one 
weakness.  Its  real  importance  for  me  lies  in  its 
being  not  so  much  a  story  as  a  poem  of  young 
love,  in  its  powerful  characterisation — especially 
of  Adrian  Harley — and  in  its  magnificent  style. 
This,  it  would  thus  appear,  was  as  mature  in  its 
writer's  twenty-seventh  year  as  in  this  later  day 
of  Diana  of  the  Cross waj/s.  It  is  no  injustice  to 
his  other  books  to  say  that  Richard  Feverel  is 
fuller  of  fine  things  than  any  one  of  them,  bril- 
liant as  each  is.  And,  of  course,  the  greatest 
thing  in  it  is  the  matchless  lyric  of  the  early  love 
of  Lucy  and  Richard  ;  for  so  I  venture  to  name 
the  two  chapters,  **  Ferdinand  and  Miranda,"  and 
"  A  Diversion  played  on  a  Penny  Whistle," 
chapters  which  could  be  taken  bodily  from  their 
context    to   make   one   complete   poem,   to   stand 

37 


U 


"The   Egoist,"  etc. 

with  the  very  greatest  of  all  such  idylls.  Not 
since  the  Vt^a  Nuova  has  there  been  another  such 
expression  of  that  wonder,  so  sweet  and  awful, 
the  breathless  first  awakening  of  love  within  the 
soul  of  a  boy  and  a  girl,  with  all  the  bloom  of  its 
starry  transfiguration.  Ecce  deus  fortior  me^  qui 
veniens  dominahitur  mihi!  The  lovers  of  Verona 
are  mature  beside  Lucy  and  Richard. 

It  is,  I  think,  primarily  owing  to  those  chapters 
that  Richard  Feverel  is  the  one  novel  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  which  can  in  any  sense  be  said  to  be 
"popular."  Readers  who  know  nothing  else  of 
his  writing  know  these  chapters,  and  there  can 
be  no  passage  in  his  works  from  which  there  is 
less  actual  necessity  to  quote.  At  the  same 
time,  some  quotation  from  them  seems  requisite 
in  these  pages,  the  aim  of  which  is  to  dis- 
criminate and  exhibit  in  some  measure  the 
individual  side  of  Mr.  Meredith's  power.  So 
accept,  reader,  what,  if  you  are  of  my  mind,  age 
cannot  wither  for  you,  or  custom  stale. 

"  Above  green-flashing  plunges  of  a  weir,  and  shaken  by 
the  thunder  below,  lilies,  golden  and  white,  were  swaying  at 
anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet  hung  from  the 
banks  thick  with  weed  and  trailing  bramble,  and  there  also 
hung  a  daughter  of  earth.  Her  face  was  shaded  by  a  broad 
straw  hat  of  flexible  brim  that  left  her  lips  and  chin  in  the 
sun,  and,  sometimes  nodding,  sent  forth  a  light  of  promising 

38 


ii 


The  Egoist,"  etc. 


eyes.  Across  her  shoulders,  and  behind,  flowed  large  loose 
curls,  brown  in  shadow,  almost  golden  where  the  ray  touched 
them.  She  was  simply  dressed,  befitting  decency  and  the 
season.  On  a  closer  inspection  you  might  see  that  her  lips 
were  stained.  This  blooming  young  person  was  regaling  on 
dewberries.  They  grew  between  the  bank  and  the  water.  .  .  . 
The  little  skylark  went  up  above  her,  all  song,  to  the  smooth 
southern  cloud  lying  along  the  blue :  from  a  dewy  copse 
standing  dark  over  her  nodding  hat  the  blackbird  fluted, 
calling  to  her  with  thrice  mellow  note :  the  kingfisher  flashed 
emerald  out  of  green  osiers  :  a  bow-winged  heron  travelled 
aloft,  seeking  solitude :  a  boat  slipped  toward  her,  containing 
a  dreamy  youth  ;  and  still  she  plucked  the  fruit,  and  ate,  and 
mused,  as  if  no  fairy  prince  were  invading  her  territories,  and 
as  if  she  wished  not  for  one,  or  knew  not  her  wishes.  Sur- 
rounded by  the  green  shaven  meadows,  the  pastoral  summer 
buzz,  the  weirfall's  thundering  white,  amid  the  breath  and 
beauty  of  wild  flowers,  she  was  a  bit  of  lovely  human  life  in 
a  fair  setting;  a  terrible  attraction.  The  Magnetic  Youth 
leaned  round  to  note  his  proximity  to  the  weir-piles,  and 
beheld  the  sweet  vision.  Stiller  and  stiller  grew  nature,  as  at 
the  meeting  of  two  electric  clouds.  .  .  .  To-morrow  this 
place  will  have  a  memory — the  river  and  the  meadow,  and 
the  white  falling  weir ;  his  heart  will  build  a  temple  here ; 
and  the  skylark  will  be  its  high-priest,  and  the  old  black- 
bird its  glossy-gowned  chorister,  and  there  will  be  a  sacred 
repast  of  dewberries." 

There  is  only  one  other  passage  in  the  whole 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels  that  at  all  approaches 
this  in  its  passionate  rapture — Sandra  Belloni's 
meeting  of  Wilfred  Pole  at  Wilming  Weir  in  the 
moonlight  ;  though  there  is  another  wondrous 
wooing,  passionate  in  another  way — that  where 
first  meeting,  wooing  and  winning,  all  in  one  short 

39 


*'The   Egoist,"   etc. 

night,  carry  one  along  as  Clotilde  felt  herself 
carried,  **  on  the  back  of  a  centaur  " — that  great 
imperious  wooing  of  the  great  Alvan.  I  only 
speak  here  of  the  greatest,  for  in  every  book  he 
has  written  some  notes  of  that  same  intensity 
thrill  us,  and  there  is  none  where  the  theme  of 
love  is  not  handled  both  with  a  subtlety  and  a 
poetry  such  as  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  is  new 
to  fiction.  There  is  no  more  striking  charac- 
teristic of  Mr,  Meredith's  work  than  his  treatment 
of  love.  Probably  the  root  of  his  originality  lies 
in  his  recking  his  own  rede  by  treating  him  as  an 
honest  god,  and  dabbling  not  with  the  sentimental 
rouge.  "  He  has,"  as  a  critic  in  The  Athenceum 
has  pointed  out,  **  studied  sex,  that  great  leaven 
of  art."  And  he  has  done  so  fearlessly.  He  has 
not  feared  to  face  the  physiological  basis  of 
passion,  those  **  reddened  sources  "  from  which 
Diana  shrank.  ^' What  if"  her  "poetic  ecstasy 
.  .  .  had  not  been  of  origin  divine  ?  had 
sprung  from  other  than  spiritual  founts  ?  had 
sprung  from  the  reddened  sources  she  was  com- 
pelled to  conceal?"  What  if!  echoes  Mr. 
Meredith,  with  the  glowing  eye  of  a  poet's  faith. 
Is  that  morning  glor}^  by  the  river  any  other  than 

glory,  however  it  came  ?     And  is  it  not  because 

40 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

of  his  frank  acceptance  of  that  physical  sanctity, 
of  that  bodily  sacrament,  and  of  the  chaste  sen- 
suousness  that  breathes  through  his  expression 
of  them,  delicate  and  sweet  as  the  incense  that 
flutters  from  a  young  girl's  gown,  that  such 
passages  as  that  I  have  quoted  come  to  us  with 
so  new  a  magic.  They  are  irresistible  as  Lucy 
herself.  His  pictures  of  young  married  felicity, 
and  especially  of  young  wifehood,  in  the  same 
book,  are  full  of  the  same  beauty,  and,  surely, 
never  laughter  so  delicious  rippled  around  another 
honeymoon  save  Lucy's  and  Richard's. 

"  '  Oh,  my  own  Richard ! '  the  fair  girl  just  breathed. 
He  whispered,  '  Call  me  that  name.' 
She  blushed  deeply. 

•  Call  me  that,'  he  repeated.     '  You  said  it  once  to-day.' 

•  Dearest !  ' 
'Not  that.' 

•  O  darling  ! ' 

•  Not  that. ' 

•  Husband !  ' 

She  was  won.     The  rosy  gate  from  which  the  word  had 
issued  was  closed  with  a  seal." 

We  owe  much  of  this  playfulness  to  "  the  wise 
youth,"  Adrian  Harley,  most  delightful  of  all 
cynics,  whom  one  could  forgive  twice  his  cynicism 
for  half  his  wit,  he  who  procured  Richard  and 
Ripton    an    extra    bottle   one   evening,    because 

41 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

*'  he  liked  studying  intoxicated  urchins,"  and 
who  on  a  momentous  occasion  in  Richard's 
career,  when  his  earnest  cousin  Austin  re- 
proached him  for  his  apathy  with  ''  the  boy's 
fate  is  being  decided  now,"  could  yawn  out  the 
imcomparable  retort,  "so  is  everybody's,  my  dear 
Austin  ! " 

This  Adrian,  with  what  I  cannot  but  feel 
great  superficiality  of  judgment,  has  by  some 
been  taken  to  represent  Mr.  Meredith  himself. 
Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  in  a  notable  article  in  The 
Fortnightly  Review,  was,  I  believe,  the  first  to 
propound  the  identity,  and  he  certainly  tries  his 
contention  by  the  strongest  possible  test,  the 
Ferdinand  and  Miranda  idyll,  seeking  to  prove 
that  even  there  the  cynic  shadow  of  "  the  middle- 
aged  spectator "  is  present.  But  is  this  so  ? 
He  finds  it  in  the  title  Mr.  Meredith  has  ^iven 
to  the  second  of  these  chapters — "  A  Diversion 
played  on  a  Penny  Whistle." 

After  quoting  a  few  beautiful  Hnes  from  it,  he 
says  "but  listen  to  the  irony  of  the  description 
of  such  a  scene — *  a  diversion  on  a  penny 
whistle.'  "  The  irony  ?  Why,  surely  Mr.  Court- 
ne}^  must  have  strangely  interpreted  the  passage 
which  runs  thus — 

42 


''The   Egoist,"   etc. 

"  Out  in  the  world  there,  on  the  skirts  of  the  woodland,  a 
sheep-boy  pipes  to  meditative  eve  on  a  penny-whistle.  Love's 
musical  instrument  is  as  old,  and  as  poor:  it  has  but  two 
stops  ;  and  yet,  you  see,  the  cunning  musician  does  thus  much 
with  it !  " 

If  this  means  anything,  is  it  not  rather  a 
tribute  to  the  miracle  of  it  all  than  a  sneer,  the 
ever  present  miracle  of  nature's  transfiguring 
uses  of  what  in  our  foolishness  we  so  often 
regard  as  common  and  mean,  because  the  wonder 
of  it  has  been  lost  by  familiarity  ?  Can  any  one 
imagine  Adrian  writing  this  concluding  apos- 
trophe ? 

"  Pipe  no  more.  Love  for  a  time !  Pipe  as  you  will  you 
cannot  express  their  first  kiss  ;  nothing  of  its  sweetness,  and 
of  the  sacredness  of  it  nothing.  St.  Cecilia  up  aloft,  before 
the  organ  pipes  of  Paradise,  pressing  fingers  upon  all  the 
notes  of  which  Love  is  but  one,  from  her  you  may  hear  it." 

Oh  no  !  Mr.  Meredith  is  not  Adrian  Harley, 
or  no  few  of  us  have  read  him  to  strange  pur- 
pose and  are  yet  to  be  enlightened,  for  it  has 
surely  seemed  that  we  have  drawn  more  strength 
and  joy  from  him  than  ever  yet  was  yielded  by 
make-believe.  It  is  probabl}-  Mr.  Meredith's 
ubiquitous  comic  spirit  that  has  laid  him  open 
to  this  misunderstanding,  to  controvert  which, 
perhaps,  it  were  only  necessary  to  remark  that 
a  man  like  Adrian  could   never  have   been  suffi- 

43 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

Eiently  in  earnest  to  write  novels  at  all.      Any- 
how, I,  for  one,  must  take  Mr.  Meredith  seriously 
and   if  that  should  seem  a  comic  attitude  to  Mr. 
Courtney — he  must  have  his  smile. 

Besides  this  treatment  of  the  theme  of  love, 
Richard  Feverel  is  a  typical  book  in  other  ways ; 
and  if  The  Egoist  be  taken  to  stand  for  the  one 
thing  Mr.  Meredith  can  pre-eminently  do,  Richard 
Feverel  certainly  illustrates  the  variety  of  his 
achievement  in  more  familiar  fields.  He  can 
not  only  embody  new  types,  but  can  animate  the 
old  ones  with  hardly  less  success.  Mrs.  Berry 
would  have  been  a  feather  even  in  Dickens'  cap, 
had  there  been  room  for  more  in  that  **  forest  of 
feathers."  Its  most  striking  characteristic  next 
to  style  is  probably  its  vivid  dramatic  quality. 
It  is  possible  that  owing  to  the  very  narrow 
sense  in  which  the  word  dramatic  is  too  often 
used — confining  it  exclusively  to  objective  tab- 
leaux, as  though  the  subjective  made  no  demand 
on  the  dramatic  ! — it  may  surprise  some  to  learn 
that  Mr.  Meredith  can  describe  a  fight  as  vigor- 
ously as  Charles  Reade  has  done.  Undeniably 
he  can  do  so,  and  there  is  hardly  a  book  of  his 
which  does  not  afford  examples  of  the  power. 
Rhoda  Fleming  is  a  novel  full  of  "situations/ 

44 


*'The   Egoist,"  etc. 

the  one  book  I  think  of  Mr.  Meredith's  which 
could  be  dramatised,  if  it  be  a  compHment  to  say 
so.  Vittoria  is  doubtless  his  one  great  achieve- 
ment in  the  objective  dramatic.  What  professed 
historian  could  have  given  us  such  a  picture  of 
that  great  Austro-Italian  struggle  ?  From  whom 
could  we  have  hoped  for  an  impartiality  that 
never  leaves  us  in  a  moment's  doubt  as  to  the 
writer's  vivid  sympathies,  and  yet  engages  his 
powers  as  conscientiously  in  behalf  of  Austria  as 
of  Italy — winning  our  sympathy  for  a  Colonel 
Weisspress  no  less  than  for  an  Angelo  Guida- 
scarpi  ?  Rare  too  are  the  historians  who  give  us 
scenes  Hke  the  night  at  La  Scala,  or  the  duel  in 
the  Stelvio  Pass. 

Of  one  great  engine  of  the  dramatic,  dialogue 
I  have  already  referred  to  Mr.  Meredith  as  a 
master.  And  it  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  he  can 
only  write  the  subtle  epigrammatical  conversa- 
tion of  some  of  his  sublimated  types,  for  he  is 
no  less  successful  in  those  encounters  where 
words  follow  each  other  like  blows.  One 
quahty  of  his  dialogue  to  which  James  Thomson 
has  drawn  attention  is  its  atmosphere.  Missing 
this,  one  must  often  miss  meaning  as  well.  Mr. 
Meredith  has  observed   that  two   talking   do  not 

45 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

speak  to  the  mere  words  uttered,  but  to  all  the 
nuances  that  accompany  them,  and  then  the 
various  niceties  of  impression  in  the  mind  of  the 
one  addressed  must  be  taken  into  account;  so 
that  without  sense  of  the  atmosphere,  and  ability 
to  use  one's  imagination  a  little,  the  connection 
between  question  and  answer  is  not  always 
obvious.  One  must  have  some  intuition  for 
secondary  meanings,  and  come  prepared  to  make 
a  running  interpretative  gloss  underneath  the 
mere  words  as  we  read,  as  Mr.  Meredith  has 
done  for  the  reader  in  one  simple  dialogue 
between  Rhoda  and  Robert,  which  it  will  be 
a  propos  to  quote  here. 

"  '  I've  always  thought  you  were   a  born  to  be   a  lady. 
You  had  that  ambition,  madam.) 

She  answered;  'That's  what  I  don't  understand.'     (Your 
saying  it,  O  my  friend  !) 

'You  will  soon  take  to  your  new  duties.'     (You  have  small 
objection  to  them  even  now.) 

•Yes,  or  my  life  won't  be  worth  much.'     (Know,  that  you 
are  driving  me  to  it.) 

'  And  I  wish  you  happiness,  Rhoda.'     (You  are  madly  im- 
perilling the  prospects  thereof.) 

To  each   of    them   the   second  meaning   stood  shadowy 
behind  the  utterances.     And  further  ; 

'  Thank  you,  Robert.'     (I  shall  have  to  thank  you  for  the 
issue.) 

'  Now  it's  time  to  part.'     (Do  you  not  see  that  there  is  a 
danger  for  me  in  remaining  ?) 

46 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

•Good-night.'     (Behold  I  am  submissive.) 

'Good-night,  Rhoda.'  (You  were  the  first  to  give  the 
signal  of  parting.) 

'  Good-night.'     (I  am  simply  submissive.) 

'  Why  not  my  name  ?     Are  you  hurt  with  me  ?  ' 

Rhoda  choked.  The  indirectness  of  speech  had  been  a 
shelter  to  her,  permitting  her  to  hint  at  more  than  she  dared 
clothe  in  words. 

Again  the  delicious  dusky  rose  glowed  beneath  his  eyes. 

But  he  had  put  his  hand  out  to  her  and  she  had  not  taken 
it. 

'  What  have  I  done  to  offend  you  ?  I  really  don't  know, 
Rhoda.' 

•Nothing.'     The  flower  had  closed." 

Distinctions,  however,  between  Mr.  Meredith's 
markedly  subjective  and  objective  novels  are  apt 
to  be  misleading,  they  are  but  accidental ;  for, 
whether  the  novel  be  one  chiefly  of  "action" 
like  Vittoria,  or  of  analysis  as  The  Egoist,  Mr. 
Meredith's  one  concern  is  still  the  spiritual  issue. 
If  he  is  not  engaged  in  translating  the  subjective 
into  the  objective,  he  is  tracing  the  objective 
back  to  its  subjective  springs.  As  with  the  poet 
of  Sordello,  nothing  is  valuable  to  him  except  in 
its  relation  to  the  history  of  a  soul,  the  one  thing 
worth  study.  This  then  is  his  one  great  motive, 
and  in  all  his  novels,  whatever  stir  and  action 
there  may  be,  this  is  the  ruling  power.  So 
much  does  one  feel  this  passion  in  them,  that 
one  would  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he  wrote 

47 


(( 


The  Egoist,"  et( 


them  first  purely  for  the  sake  of  settling  certain 
problems  to  his  own  satisfaction,  producing  a 
work  of  art  on  the  way.  It  is  this  great 
organic  sincerity  in  his  work  that  makes  it  so 
important,  and  compels  us  to  take  it  so  seriously. 
One  feels  that  it  has  not  been  manufactured,  but 
has  grown.  It  has  nothing  in  common  with 
those  clever  **  sets  "  on  our  shelves,  which  might 
just  as  easily  have  been  in  thirty  as  twenty 
volumes,  had  the  novelist  possessed  more  horse- 
power. The  organic  feeling  animates  every  line, 
each  word  seems  to  have  fallen  inevitably  as  and 
where  it  is ;  which,  after  all,  is  but  to  say  that 
we  are  dealing  with  literature.  Once  again  we 
see  sincerity  as  the  root  of  style,  and  the  last 
word  as  the  first  for  Mr.  Meredith  is  his  style. 
He  has  that  great  manner  of  the  masters  which 
is  not  to  be  aped,  by  virtue  of  which  he  rears 
his  "  figure  of  easy  and  superb  preponderance  " 
among  our  living  novelists.  Sharing  all  their 
brilliant  parts,  he  possesses  in  addition  such 
mature  dignity  as  striplings  envy  in  "  set  "  man- 
hood, that  *'  weight "  which  is  another  than 
heaviness.  He  has  all  their  sparkle,  but  "  body" 
such   as   they   have  not — "  To   port  for  that  !  " 

His  method  of  telling  a  story  is  a  sing'ular  fusion 

48 


"The  Egoist,"  etc. 

of  new  and  old.  A  master  of  the  modern  im- 
pressionist method,  he  is  as  deliberate  as  Fielding, 
and  thus  unites  the  distinctive  strength  of  each 
manner.  He  constantly  loves  to  flash  in  a  phrase 
and  then  make  sure  in  a  paragraph,  and  this 
contrast  of  intensity  and  deliberation  gives  a 
great  piquancy  to  his  writing.  He  spares  no 
pains  to  reach  his  reader,  to  make  him  as  wise 
as  himself,  and  his  backgrounds  and  accessories 
are  each  and  all  finished  with  the  same  con- 
scientious industry  as  the  front  of  the  picture. 
One  is  sometimes  tempted  to  wish  this  were  not 
so,  thinking,  maybe,  that  the  energy  expended  in 
perfecting  familiar  types  might  have  been  blood 
in  the  veins  of  another  Sir  Willoughby.  But  Sir 
Willoughbys,  as  we  have  seen,  must  have  their 
dependents ;  and  the  gift  of  ten  novels,  in  each 
of  which  there  is  at  least  one  commanding 
creation,  is  surely  no  small  generosity  to  one's 
generation,  which  possesses  them  too  in  a  medium 
so  precious  for  its  own  sake  as  Mr.  Meredith's 
prose. 


49 


./ 


Ill 

^^The  Comic   Muse" 

There  is  nothing  more  essential  to  a  considera- 
tion of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels  than  a  right  under- 
standing of  his  "idea  of  comedy."  For  many 
of  his  creations  have  been  conceived  under  its 
direct  inspiration  and  all  under  its  supervision, 
while  the  ultimate  subtlety  of  its  working  is  to 
be  traced  in  the  vital  influence  it  has  undoubtedly 

,  exercised  on  his  style.  It  is  probably  as  much 
to  that  sensitiveness  as  to  any  other  that  we  owe 
the  entire  absence  of  commonplace  expression  in 
his  writing  ;  his  keen  nerve  for  what  Dr.  Holmes 
has  called   the  polarisation  of  words  detects  for 

^im,  in  the  earliest  stage  of  the  comic  process, 
what  it  is  common  to  feel  but  in  the  exaggerated 
cases  of  prosers  talking  platitudes  with  an  air,  or 
in  the  presence  of  good  folk  capable  of  quoting 
*'the  cup  that  cheers"  in  all  solemnity.  To 
posture  in  outworn  expression  is  as  ludicrous  as 

50 


"The  Comic   Muse 


5> 


swaggering  in  a  threadbare  coat,  and  to  lead  out 
a  tottering  phrase  with  the  same  sprightly  gal- 
lantry we  would  show  to  one  in  the  bloom  of  its 
first  season  is  even  pathetic.  If  '*  our  new 
thoughts  have  thrilled  dead  bosoms,"  we  need 
not  dress  them  from  mouldy  wardrobes.  It 
will,  therefore,  be  understood  that  one  who  has 
thus  an  eye  for  the  comic  in  the  microscopic 
features  of  a  word,  will  not  when  he  comes  to 
consider  the  larger  laughableness  of  men  and 
women,  give  us  simply  a  hurly-burl}'  comicality 
after  the  pattern  of  those  modern  humorists 
who  distort  life  instead  of  reflecting  it,  and  pass 
from  volume  to  volume  in  one  long  quest  of  new 
forms  of  sacrilege.  The  great  difference  between 
such  and  the  author  of  The  Egoist  is  that  they 
Tiave  to  make  their  "  comedy,"  whereas  for  the 
latter  it  inheres  in  all  things  as  vitally  as  poetry 
and  as  diffused  as  sunshine.  It  needs  but  the 
eye  to  see,  and  the  hand  to  fix  it  for  us  in  art, 
with  no  more  conventionalising  than  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  art  make  absolute  ;  for,  said  Adrian 
Harley,  "  no  art  arrives  at  the  artlessness  of 
nature  in  matters  of  comedy."  But,  indeed, 
there  is  no  matter  on  which  the  majority  of  men 
are    more    completely    benighted    than    this    of 

51 


> 


^'The  Comic  Muse" 

comedy  ;  the  idea  that  the  comic  is  in  the  lau^h 
rather  than  the  laughed  at  is  of  no  restricted 
prevalence.  It  is,  in  short,  continually  confused 
with  its  vassal,  humour,  and  few  have  any  idea 
of  the  delicious  smiles  of  the  muse  behind  that 
mask  "labelled  for  broad  guffaw." 

Whoso  is  wiser  than  the  rest  is  probably 
indebted  to  Mr.  Meredith  for  much  of  his 
enlightenment,  and  if  he  did  not 'hear,  or  has  not 
read,  that  lecture  on  '*  The  Idea  of  Comedy  and 
the  uses  of  the  Comic  Spirit "  delivered  at  the 
London  Institution,  February,  and  printed  in 
The  New  Quarterly  Magazine^  April  1877,  he 
has  not  read  the  first  chapter  of  The  Egoist  in 
vain.  In  the  former,  Mr.  Meredith's  ever  keen 
instinct  for  differentiation  gives  us  distinctions 
valuable  as  these. 

"  If  you  detect  the  ridicule,  and  your  kindliness  is  chilled 
by  it,  you  are  slipping  into  the  grasp  of  satire. 

If,  instead  of  falling  foul  of  the  ridiculous  person  with  a 
satiric  rod,  to  make  him  writhe  and  shriek  aloud,  you  prefer 
to  sting  him  under  a  semi-caress,  by  which  he  shall  in  his. 
anguish  be  rendered  dubious  whether  indeed  anything  has^ 
hurt  him,  you  are  an  engine  of  irony. 

If  you  laugh  all  round  him,  tumble  him,  roll  him  about, 
deal  him  a  smack,  and  drop  a  tear  on  him,  own  his  likeness 
to  you  and  yours  to  your  neighbour,  spare  him  as  little  as  you 
shun  him,  pity  him  as  much  as  you  expose,  it  is  a  spirit  of 
humour  that  is  moving  you. 

52 


"The  Comic  Muse 


J7 


The  comic,  which  is  the  perceptive,  is  the  governing  spirit 
awakening  and  giving  aim  to  these  powers  of  laughter,  but  it 
is  not  to  be  confounded  with  them  :  it  enfolds  a  thinner  form 
of  them." 

And  preceding  these  definitions  Mr.  Meredith 
had  written  : 

"  You  may  estimate  5'our  capacity  for  comic  perception  by 
being  able  to  detect  the  ridicule  of  them  you  love,  without 
loving  them  less :  and  more  by  being  able  to  see  yourself 
somewhat  ridiculous  in  dear  eyes,  and  accepting  the  correc- 
tion their  image  of  you  proposes." 

It  is  just  in  this  spirit  that  Mr.  Meredith  laughs 
at  men  and  women,  loving  or  pitying  them  all 
the  same.  The  best  illustration  of  the  difference 
between  his  comedy  and  that  of  the  modern 
"  humorist  "  is  his  treatment  of  the  theme  of  love. 
To  the  latter  there  would  seem  to  be  something 
convulsive  in  the  idea  of  love  itself,  and  a  love- 
scene,  however  managed,  intrinsically  the  funniest 
thing  in  the  world. 

Thus  it  has  become  all  but  impossible  to  play 
even  **  Romeo  and  Juliet"  without  cynicism  in 
the  stalls  and  horse-laughter  from  the  pit.  Such 
cynicism  and  such  laughter  have  no  relation  to 
the  comic  spirit — except,  indeed,  as  subjects  of  it, 
for  at  cynicism  the  gods  themselves  laugh,  and 
the  mirth  of  pits  is  purely  ventral ;  whereas,  of 

53 


'^  The   Comic  Muse 


» 


course,  the  laughter  of  the  muse  ripples  first,  if 
not  solely,  in  her  brain,  softly  as  the  out-pouring 
of  wine.  To  see  "  where  "  indeed  "  the  laugh 
comes  in  "  is  a  rare  quality,  perhaps  hardly  in- 
digenous in  Britain — around  whose  mere  name, 
as  one  writes  it,  there  seems,  in  truth,  a  lambent 
light  of  the  comic.  In  this  matter  of  love,  as  in  all 
subjects  of  the  muse,  it  is  not,  of  course,  the  fact 
that  is  laughable,  but  the  falsehood  in  which 
it  parades.  For  "  if,"  says  Mr.  Meredith,  "  she 
watches  over  sentimentalism  with  a  birch-rod,  she 
is  not  opposed  to  romance.  You  may  love,  and 
warmly  love,  so  long  as  you  are  honest.  Do  not 
offend  reason.  A  lover  pretending  too  much  by 
one  foot's  length  of  pretence,  will  have  that  foot 
caught  in  her  trap."  It  is  not  at  Lucy  and 
Richard  by  the  river  that  the  muse  smiles,  she 
smiles  on  them  motherwise  may  be,  not  at  the 
great  passion  of  a  Sandra,  but  the  poor  make- 
believe  of  a  Wilfred  Pole,  who  "  could  pledge 
himself  to  eternity,  but  shrank  from  being  bound 
to  eleven  o'clock  on  the  morrow  morning,"  and 
could  wonder  if  there  was  not  a  shade  too  much 
confidence  in  Sandra's  cry  of  "  my  lover  ! " 

Truth,  indeed,  life   as   it   is,  is   the  one   great 
desire  of  the  comic  muse,  and  to  whip  men  back 

54 


^^The   Comic   Muse 


55 


to  that  does  she  carry  her  lash  of  laughter.  Her 
great  gift  is  an  eye  for  proportion,  to  sins  against 
which,  in  one  way  or  another,  all  comic  attitudes 
may  be  traced. 

The  measure  of  the  disproportion  decides  the 
quality  of  the  laughter  which  she  calls  forth  to 
ridicule  and  rectify  it.  She  does  not  necessarily 
laugh  herself — "  inclined  to  smile  "  probably  re- 
presents the  extent  of  her  own  humorous  de- 
monstrativeness — nor  need  we  ;  she  but  appeals 
to  our  brain  to  recognise  the  anomaly,  whence 
may  or  may  not  run  a  summons  to  the  powers 
of  laughter.  But  let  us  beware  lest  in  our  laugh- 
ter we  conmiit  the  very  sin  which  raised  it,  for 
though  all  laughter,  the  most  benighted,  must 
arise  primarily  from  an,  at  least,  imagined  comic 
perception,  in  most  the  maximum  is  on  the  wrong 
side.  Over-laughing,  the  sin  of  the  "  hypergelast," 
as  Mr.  Meredith  terms  him,  is  even  less  tolerable 
to  the  muse  than  that  of  the   "  agelast,"  he  who 

will  not 

"  Show  his  teeth  in  way  of  smile 
Though  Nestor  swore  the  jest  be  laughable," 

and  if  we  are  guilty  of  it,  the  muse  will  but  send 
out  another  laughter  upon  ours,  which  in  its  turn 
may  need  chastening ;   a  good  illustration  of  her 

55 


"The  Comic   Muse 


9? 


primarily  perceptive  quality,  and  the  process  by 
which  "  the  original  big  round  satyr's  laugh  "  is 
sublimated  in  time  to  '^  the  slim  feasting  smile  " 
of  the  muse.  When  we  have  learnt  the  secret  of 
fine  laughter,  to  do  as  much  of  it  in  the  brain  as 
possible,  and  when  the  comic  conception  is  so 
mighty  as  to  need  all  powers  of  laughter  in  heart 
and  brain,  "the  laugh  will  come  again,"  says 
Mr.  Meredith,  "  but  it  will  be  of  the  order  of  the 
smile." 

Mr.  Meredith's  comedy,  need  one  say,  is  of 
that  order.  He  rarely  enlists  humour  in  the  pre- 
sentation of  his  comic  perceptions,  never  in  the 
most  important  of  them.  These  latter  are,  as 
ever,  the  less  obviously  and,  therefore,  the  more 
exquisitely  comic  types  of  humanity ;  respect- 
abilities and  complacencies,  the  humour  of  which 
is  not  visible  to  the  average  naked  eye,  a  subtle 
aura  needing  for  its  detection  a  certain  gift,  so  to 
say,  of  comic  clairvoyance.  Types  in  whom 
many  will  not,  "  for  the  life  of  them,"  be  able  to 
see  "  what  there  is  to  laugh  at,"  such  as  Matthew 
Arnold  used  to  meet  travelling  "  on  the  Wood- 
ford branch  in  large  numbers."  Matthew 
Arnold,  by  the  way,  with  that  exquisitely  reticent 
smile   of  his,    might    stand    for    Mr.    Meredith's 

56 


^'The   Comic   Muse" 

"  idea  of  comedy  "  made  flesh.  Perhaps  the  one 
representative  of  this  complacent  class  for  all 
ages  was  the  man  who,  in  days  long  past,  was 
wont  to  say  "  Civis  Romanum  Sum,"  with  an 
air,  though  his  advantage  over  a  modern  parallel 
to  whom  the  Bank  of  England  is  among  the  eter- 
nal verities,  is  doubtless  one  of  priority  alone. 

Mr.  Meredith  is  a  Copernican  in  a  world  yet 
peopled  for  the  most  part  by  Ptolemaists,  men 
without  Jupiter  in  their  lives.  And,  from  this 
living  without  Jupiter  come  all  those  forms  of 
tradesmanlike  seriousness  with  regard  to  life,  as 
opposed  to  the  great  seriousness  ;  all  forms  of 
taking  existence  for  more  and,  therefore,  for  less 
than  it  is  :  all  that  disproportion  which  it  is  the 
function  of  the  comic  muse  to  adjust. 

Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  is  Mr.  Meredith's  typical  comic  figure.  He 
is  so  both  in  subject  and  in  the  manner  of  his 
presentation.  The  delicacy  of  the  latter  must 
surely  represent  the  ultimate  reserve  of  comic 
treatment.  Pushed  a  shade  beyond  that,  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  discover  any  artistic  in- 
tention whatever,  so  little  does  Sir  Willoughby 
betray  the  medium  of  his  embodiment.  The 
comedy  of  him  is  hardly  more  defined  than  the 

57 


^^The  Comic   Muse 


95 


pathos,  which  is  really  quite  undefined  and  left 
for  the  reader  to  discover ;  and  though  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  comic  was  the  muse  to  give 
him  to  us,  he  is,  indeed,  only  just  hers. 

The  treatment  of  Roy  Richmond,  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's other  great  comic  figure,  is  no  less  delicate, 
though  proportionately  broader.  It  approaches 
a  shade  nearer  to  the  absolutely  humorous,  and, 
in  keeping,  its  pathos  is  more  on  the  surface.  If 
we  must  place  him  second  to  Sir  Willoughby,  it 
is  only  as  a  subject,  for  in  the  matter  of  presen- 
tation they  seem  to  me  equals  ;  but,  whereas  one 
is  a  wholly  new  type,  the  other  is  the  compara- 
tively familiar  one  of  the  great  adventurer. 
Whether  or  not,  however,  there  has  been  such  an 
adventurer  in  fiction  before,  I  leave  to  the  school 
of  comparative  criticism,  though  I  must  commit 
myself  to  the  extent  of  expressing  surprise  at  the 
odd  caution  with  which  a  certain  critic  who  is  not 
wont  to  be  timid  sets  Roy  Richmond  alongside 
Barry  Lyndon,  with  the  air  of  paying  him  a 
compliment ! 

To  my  mind  such  a  juxtaposition  is  anything 
but  that.  I  have  always  looked  upon  Thackeray's 
Irishman  as  a  broad  charcoal  caricature,  and 
little   to   boast  of  as  that,  and  I  certainly  fail  to 

58 


"The   Comic   Muse 


59 


see  any  common  basis  of  comparison  between  him 
and  a  careful  characterisation  such  as  Roy 
Richmond.  If  burlesque  and  comic  art — Mr. 
Burnand  and  Moliere — are  one  and  the  same,  it 
may  be  discoverable. 

Both  these  figures,  of  Sir  Willoughby  and  Roy 
Richmond,  strike,  as  we  have  seen,  that  minor 
note,  which  I  think  it  is  generally  admitted  every 
great  comic  figure  does  strike.  All  such  are, 
indeed,  somewhat  of  ''tragic  comedians."  The 
Muse  "  hastens  to  smile  lest  she  should  weep." 
**  A  tragic  comedian,"  says  Mr.  Meredith,  of 
Alvan,  "  that  is,  a  great  pretender,  a  self- 
deceiver,  one  of  the  vividly  ludicrous,  whom  we 
cannot  laugh  at,  but  must  contemplate,  to  dis- 
tinguish where  their  character  strikes  the  note  of 
discord  with  life."  But  the  measure  of  the  dis- 
proportion to  life  of  a  soul  of  such  high  serious- 
ness as  Alvan's,  though  it  may  come  under  the 
observation  of  the  comic  spirit,  is  not  a  subject 
for  comic  treatment,  however  delicate  ;  it  belongs 
to  the  other  hemisphere  of  art,  and  comedy  has 
really  such  part  in  it  as  pathos  has  in  more  dis- 
tinctly comic  figures.  There  is  that  touch  of  the 
infinite  in  his  bearing  before  which  whatever 
faint  comic  suggestiveness  there  may  be  in  him, 

59 


"The   Comic  Muse 


5> 


laughter  must  give  place  to  a  more  serious 
regard.  If  he  is  not  of  the  gods,  he  is  a  demi- 
god, and  the  true  comic  figure  is  a  mortal  of 
mortals. 

Of  Mr.  Meredith's  treatment  of  "  the  simple 
order  of  the  comic,"  that  Dr.  Middleton  before 
referred  to  is  probably  the  freshest  study. 

Doubtless  the  relationship  which  has  been 
pointed  out  between  him  and  Dr.  Folliott  in 
Peacock's  Crotchet  Castle  is  real,  though  his  type 
was,  after  all,  hardly  Peacock's  cop3Tight,  and 
charming  as  the  latter's  doctor  is,  he  must  give 
way  in  flesh  and  blood  realisation  to  Dr.  Middle- 
ton.  Peacock's  characters  are  always  too  obvious 
personifications  for  one  to  feel  much  life  in 
them,  though  they  might  appeal  more  nearly 
to  one  if  they  were  not  ticketed  with  such 
unmistakable  labels,  not  to  say  placards,  behind 
which  the  man  is  lost  sight  of  to  begin  with. 
Whatever  may  be  said  against  Dr.  Middleton's 
phraseology,  and  he  does  on  one  occasion  refer 
to  his  daughter  as  a  **  fantastical  planguncula," 
he  is  certainly  alive.  The  well-known  scene 
wherein  Sir  Willoughby  and  he  discuss  that 
"  aged   and   great  wine  "  is   probably    the    best 

example  of  Mr.  Meredith's  use  of  humour,  rich 

60 


"The  Comic  Muse 


5J 


and  yet  characteristically  restrained,  to  be  found 
in  his  novels.  Fortunately,  it  is  also  the  most 
quotable. 

Sir  Willoughby  "  raised  a  key  to  the  level  of  Dr.  Middleton's 
breast,  remarking  :  '  I  am  going  down  to  my  inner  cellar.' 

'  An  inner  cellar  !  '  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

'  Sacred  from  the  butler.  It  is  interdicted  to  Stoneman. 
Shall  I  offer  myself  as  guide  to  you  ?  My  cellars  are  worth  a 
visit.' 

'  Cellars  are  not  catacombs.  They  are,  if  rightly  con- 
structed, rightly  considered,  cloisters,  where  the  bottle  medi- 
tates on  joys  to  bestow,  not  on  dust  misused !  Have  you 
anything  great  ? ' 

'  A  wine  aged  ninety.' 

•  Is  it  associated  with  your  pedigree,  that  you  pronounce 
the  age  with  such  assurance  ? ' 

'  My  grandfather  inherited  it.' 

•  Your  grandfather.  Sir  Willoughby,  had  meritorious  off- 
spring, not  to  speak  of  generous  progenitors.  What  would 
have  happened,  had  it  fallen  into  the  female  line  ?  I  shall 
be  glad  to  accompany  you.     Port  ?     Hermitage  ?  ' 

•  Port !  • 

'  Ah  !  we  are  in  England  !  '  " 

Then   again   in   the  library,    seated,   with  the 
decanter  between  them. 

"Dr.  Middleton  eyed  the  decanter.  There  is  a  grief  in 
gladness  for  premonition  of  our  mortal  state.  The  amount  of 
wine  in  the  decanter  did  not  promise  to  sustain  the  starry  roof 
of  night  and  greet  the  dawn.  '  Old  wine,  my  friend,  denies 
us  the  full  bottle  ! ' 

'  Another  bottle  is  to  follow.' 

•No!' 

'It  is  ordered.' 

6i 


"The  Comic  Muse" 

•  I  protest.' 

'  It  is  uncorked.' 

'  I  entreat.' 

'  It  is  decanted.' 

•  I  submit.  But,  mark,  it  must  be  honest  partnership. 
You  are  my  worthy  host,  sir,  on  that  stipulation.  Note  the 
superiority  of  wine  over  Venus ! — I  may  say  the  magnanimity 
of  wine  ;  our  jealousy  turns  on  him  that  will  not  share!  But 
the  corks,  Willoughby.     The  corks  excite  my  amazement.' 

'  The  corking  is  examined  at  regular  intervals,  I  remember 
the  occurrence  in  my  father's  time.     I  have  seen  to  it  once.' 

'  It  must  be  perilous  as  an  operation  for  tracheotomy ;  which 
I  should  assume  it  to  resemble  in  surgical  skill  and  firmness 
of  hand,  not  to  mention  the  imminent  gasp  of  the  patient. ' 

A  fresh  decanter  was  placed  before  the  doctor. 

He  said,  '  I  have  but  a  girl  to  give  ! '     He  was  melted." 

Another  type  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen 
set  forth  so  well  before  is  that  of  Algernon 
Blancove  in  Rhoda  Flemings  an  example  of  the 
not  uncommon  weak-minded  young  fool,  who  used 
to  buy  cigars  "  to  save  himself  from  excesses  in 
charity,"  yet  was  not  without  the  alternatives  of 
his  vascillating  temperament,  for  "  he'd  aim  at  a 
cock-sparrow,  and  be  glad  if  he  missed."  Of 
what  may  be  termed  the  "  stock  "  roles  of  the 
comic,  all  those  types  known  on  the  stage  as 
*'  character  parts,"  Mr.  Meredith  has  a  full  com- 
pany. He  can  give  us  boys  and  their  solemn 
absurdities,  country  folk,  old  men  and  women  and 

eccentrics  of  various  kinds,  in  a  way  that,  to  state 

62 


"The  Comic   Muse" 

one's  opinion   in  minimum,  makes  it  quite  worth 
our  while  watching  them. 

**  I  growed  at  a  farm,  and  you  don't  go  to  tell 
ne'er  a  tree  t'walk  " — "  He  was  very  much  in 
harmony  with  universal  nature,  if  to  be  that  is 
the  secret  of  human  life " — "  the  reply  was 
evidently  a  mile  distant  and  had  not  started  " — 
**a.  sheepskin  old  Time  writes  his  nothings  on" 
— these  are  phrases  belonging  to  and  descriptive 
of  that  Master  Gammon  who  used  to  annoy 
housekeeper  Sumfit  by  the  relentless  patience 
with  which  on  dumpling-days  he  would  sit  and 
absorb  dumpling  after  dumpling  till,  exasperated 
beyond  patience,  she  would  cry,  "  when  do  you 
think  you'll  have  done,  Mas'  Gammon,"  and  after 
due  delay  he  would  reply,  "  when  I  feel  my 
buttons,  marm."  This  Master  Gammon  and  the 
countryman  in  Diana  who  "  could  eat  hog  for  a 
solid  hower  "  have  been  the  subjects  of  compara- 
tive discussion  here  and  there,  to  which  I  will 
not  add  more  than  to  say  that  one  is  too  apt  to 
write  of  countrymen  as  though  there  was  but  one 
fixed  type  of  them — whereas,  of  course,  they  are 
as  various  in  character  as  other  vegetables.  This 
Master  Gammon  certainly,  to  my  mind,  embodies 
in  a  humour  as  direct  as  it  is  quaint  some  of  the 

63 


"The  Comic   Muse 


»> 


most  striking  traits  of  the  more  primitive  class 
of  farm-labourer,  that  human  nullity  who  has 
only  to  stand  still  to  be  taken  for  a  gnarled  gate- 
post, and  through  whom  the  formation  of  man 
*'  from  the  dust  of  the  ground  "  comes  to  seem  a 
not  unlikely  thing. 

In  his  humorous  characterisation,  as  else- 
where, it  will  be  seen  that  Mr,  Meredith  does  most 
of  his  work  by  phrases,  though,  as  I  liave  said,  he 
seldom  fails  to  supplement  his  first  vivid  impres- 
sion of  a  leading  trait  by  a  patient  fulness  of 
studied  detail,  a  rare  solicitude  for  the  reader. 
But  it  is  the  first  phrases  that  always  give  us  the 
firmest  grasp,  the  deepest  insight,  and  it  is  by 
that  that  the  character  fives  in  our  minds.  If 
one  thinks  again  of  the  hapless  Barrett  in  Sandra 
BeUoni  it  will  be,  I  think,  because  he  looked 
"  as  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman  in  another  world 
and  was  the  ghost  of  one  in  this,"  and  despite  the 
careful  portrait  of  Anthony  Hackbut  in  Rhoda 
Flemings  it  is  towards  the  end  of  the  book  that 
we  know  him  best,  when  he  accepts  a  glass  of 
wine  from  Robert,  not  because  he  really  cared 
about  it,  but  because  he  could  not  deny  himself 
"  the  tender  ecstasy  of  being  paid  for."  This 
Anthony  Hackbut  is  an  example,  though  not  the 

64 


^'The   Comic   Muse 


9> 


best,  of  Mr.  Meredith's  use  of  the  fantastic,  that 
**  Arabian  Night  "  faculty  which  in  him  is  very 
strong,  and  of  which  we  feel  the  more  serious 
spell  in  such  a  chapter  as  "  An  Enchantress,"  in 
Richard  Feverel.  Mr.  Romfrey's  odd  jumbled 
dream  while  dozing  near  Beauchamp's  sick-bed 
is  a  good  example  of  it  ;  better  still  those  make- 
believe  stories  wherein  Roy  Richmond  used  to 
take  such  liberties  of  juxtaposition  with  various 
characters  of  history  and  drama  for  the  benefit 
of  his  dear  boy  Harry. 

"  '  Great  Will '  my  father  called  Shakespeare,  and  '  Slender 
Billy'  Pitt.  The  scene  where  Great  Will  killed  the  deer, 
dragging  Falstaff  all  over  the  park  after  it  by  the  light  of 
Bardolph's  nose,  upon  which  they  put  an  extinguisher  if  they 
heard  an}'  of  the  keepers,  and  so  left  everybody  groping  about 
and  catching  the  wrong  person,  was  the  most  wonderful 
mixture  of  fun  and  tears.  Great  Will  was  extremely  youthful, 
but  everybody  in  the  park  called  him  '  Father  William ' :  and 
when  he  wanted  to  know  which  way  the  deer  had  gone,  King 
Lear  (or  else  my  memory  deceives  me)  pursued  and  Lady 
Macbeth  waved  a  handkerchief  for  it  to  be  steeped  in  the  blood 
of  the  deer ;  Shylock  ordered  one  pound  of  the  carcase ; 
Hamlet  (I  cannot  say  why,  but  the  fact  was  impressed  upon 
me),  offered  him  a  three-legged  stool ;  and  a  number  of  kings 
and  knights  and  ladies  lit  their  torches  from  Bardolph ;  and 
away  they  flew,  distracting  the  keepers  and  leaving  Will  and 
his  troop  to  the  deer.  That  poor  thing  died  from  a  different 
w-eapon  at  each  recital,  though  always  with  a  flow  of  blood 
and  a  successful  dash  of  his  antlers  into  Falstaff;  and  to  hear 
Falstaff  bellow !  But  it  was  mournful  to  hear  how  sorry 
Great  Will  w^as  over  the  animal  he  had  slain.     He  spoke  like 

65  E 


"The  Comic   Muse 


55 


music.  I  found  it  pathetic  in  spite  of  my  knowing  that  the 
whole  scene  was  lighted  up  by  Bardolph's  nose,  when  I  was 
just  bursting  out  crying — for  the  deer's  tongue  was  lolling  out 
and  quick  pantings  were  at  his  side ;  he  had  little  ones  at 
home — Great  Will  remembered  his  engagement  to  sell 
Shylock  a  pound  of  the  carcase;  determined  that  no  Jew 
should  eat  of  it,  he  bethought  him  that  Falstaff  could  well 
spare  a  pound,  and  he  said  the  Jew  would  not  see  the  differ- 
ence ;  Falstaff  only  got  off  by  hard  running  and  roaring  out 
that  he  knew  his  unclean  life  would  make  him  taste  like  pork 
and  thus  let  the  Jew  into  the  trick." 

This  is  delightful  nonsense,  and  the  faculty  of 
improvisation  which  it  witnesses  must,  of  course, 
have  been  Mr.  Meredith's  before  it  was  Roy 
Richmond's,  in  whose  history  it  swayed  such  a 
power  of  charm  ;  but  the  crowning  example  of 
such  is  The  Shaving  of  Shagpaf,  that  gnomic 
book  which  the  very  clever  will  doubtless  persist 
in  interpreting  as  a  satirical  allegory,  but  which 
one  can  be  well  content  to  take  according  to  its 
label — "an  Arabian  entertainment."  Its  fantasy, 
however,  is  not  its  only  attraction  ;  probably  its 
subtlest  fascination  is  a  purely  literary  one,  such 
as  we  enjoy  in  that  most  delicate  parody  which 
is  the  barely  heightened  reproduction  of  the  thing 
itself.  Nothing  could  be  more  delicious  than 
Mr.  Meredith's  imitation  of  the  Oriental  phrase- 
ology,   and   the   cleverness    with    which   he   has 

caught  the  manner  of  the  Arabian  story-teller  in 

66 


"The  Comic  Muse 


99 


every  particular,  even  to  all  the  various  styles  of 
the  indispensable  quotations  "  in  the  words  of 
the  poet." 

The  very  title  of  the  first  chapter — ''  The 
Thwackings " — is  a  triumph,  and  the  opening 
lines  give  a  most  appetising  foretaste  of  what  is 
to  follow. 

"  It  was  ordained  that  Shibli  Bagarag,  nephew  to  the 
renowned  Baba  Mustapha,  chief  barber  to  the  Court  of 
Persia,  should  shave  Shagpat,  the  son  of  Shimpoor,  the  son 
of  Shoolpi,  the  son  of  Shullum;  and  they  had  been  clothiers 
for  generations,  even  to  the  time  of  Shagpat,  illustrious. 

Now  the  story  of  Shibli  Bagarag,  and  of  the  ball  he  followed, 
and  of  the  subterranean  kingdom  he  came  to,  and  of  the 
enchanted  palace  he  entered,  and  of  the  sleeping  king  he 
shaved,  and  of  the  two  princesses  he  released,  and  of  the 
Afrite  held  in  subjection  by  the  arts  of  one  and  bottled  by 
her,  is  it  not  known  as  'twere  written  on  the  finger-nails  of 
men  and  traced  in  their  corner  robes  ?     As  the  poet  says  : 

Ripe  with  oft  telling  and  old  is  the  tale, 

But  'tis  of  the  sort  that  can  never  grow  stale." 

And  what,  in  its  way,  could  be  better  than  the 
description  of  *'  a  woman,  old,  wrinkled,  a  very 
crone,  with  but  room  for  the  drawing  of  a  thread 
between  her  nose  and  her  chin."  But,  in  addi- 
tion to  this  pervading  humorous  value,  there  are 
many  passages  of  serious  beauty,  the  love-scenes 
in  "  Bhanavar  the  Beautiful,"  for  example  ;  and 

some  of  the  snatches  of  song  therein   are   quite 

67 


^^The   Comic    Muse 


99 


exquisite,  though  those,  of  course,  are  not  our 
present  concern.  That  quahty  of  dehcate  parody 
is  more  to  the  point,  as  indicative  of  a  power  of 
humorous  phrase,  that  purely  hterary  humour 
which  consists  rather  in  quaintness  of  statement 
than  in  subject  matter,  in  which  Mr.  Meredith's 
writing  is  peculiarly  rich.  It  is,  indeed,  in  that 
all  pervading  piquancy  of  verbal  flavour,  and  his 
use  of  comedy  as  ^*  a  criticism  of  life  "  in  its  more 
conventional  and  highly  cultivated  forms,  that  we 
must  look  for  Mr.  Meredith's  most  original 
inspiration  from  the  Comic  Mui^e. 


68 


IV 
"The   Pilgrim's  Scrip" 

The  title  which,  in  the  first  instance,  belongs 
to  Sir  Austin  Feverel's  volume  of  apothegms, 
may  well  stand  for  all  those  considerable  riches, 
making,  perhaps,  the  bulk  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
wealth,  which  exist  in  the  form  of  aphoristic 
gold  pieces,  and  sentences  readily  negotiable  as 
quotation,  throughout  his  novels. 

An  American  lady  has  so  applied  it  to  a  very 
charming  collection  of  Meredithian  "  wit  and 
wisdom,"  for  which  alone  one  sighs  the  lack  of 
an  international  copyright. 

As  originally  used  it  denotes  a  collection  of 
what  pagan  Elizabethans,  anxious  to  make  their 
peace  before  the  end,  would  have  called  *'  Divine 
Epigrams,"  but  for  us  to  so  confine  it  in  these 
pages  would  be  pedantic,  as  there  are  as  many 
wise  things  outside  as  within  it.  It  forms, 
indeed,  but  one  of  Mr.  Meredith's  many  excuses 

69 


^^The   Pilgrim's   Scrip 


55 


for  being  witty — Dr.   Middleton,  Adrian  Harley, 

Stukeley  Culbrett,  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  and    others 

— which   are  as  efficient,  however,  in  the  Danae- 

shower  of  his  wit  as  half  a  dozen  basins    spread 

to  catch    a   day's   rainfall    from   the    south-west. 

One    sometimes   wonders   why   he  should    have 

taken  the  trouble  to   provide  these  mouthpieces, 

for  he  is  just  as  shamelessly  witty  without  them, 

and  probably  his  best  things  are  said  in  propria 

persona. 

But,    while   making   use   of  the   label,    "  The 

Pilgrim's   Scrip,"  to    stand   for  the    bulk   of  Mr. 

Meredith's  phrase-making,  sacred  and  profane — 

that  is,  for  his  wit   as   a  power  apart   from    its 

several  working — it  would  be  as  well  to  bear  in 

mind  its  secondary,    more    exact,    meaning    too. 

"  Who  rises  from  prayer  a  better  man  his  prayer 

is  answered  "  is,  of  course,  the  product  of  precisely 

the  same  power  as  that  which  armed  Diana  with 

her  "  arrowy  phrases  "  and  gave  Adrian  his  caustic 

tongue ;  as,  for  example,  the  sensuousness  of  a 

Crashaw  and  a  Keats  is  much  the  same,  although 

one  dedicated  his  to  the  Virgin  and  the  other  to 

Cynthia.      Yet  there  is  a  strong  physiognomical 

difference  in  the   products   which   one  wishes   to 

have  marked. 

70 


^The   Pilgrim's   Scrip 


9» 


If  **The  Pilgrim's  Scrip"  be  kept  apart  for 
the  "  sacred  "  side  of  Mr.  Meredith's  wit,  he  has 
given  us  no  such  general  heading  for  his  "pro- 
fanities "  ;  so  will  it  seem  profane  in  me  to  suggest 
**  Diana's  Quiver"  in  default  of  a  better  ? 

Under  two  such  fanciful  labels  one  could 
speedily  classify  all  his  good  things — "  The 
Pilgrim's  Scrip  "  to  represent  the  earnest  wisdom 
of  his  wit,  "Diana's  Quiver"  the  more  playful 
satiric  aspect  of  it. 

This  gift  of  phrase-making  is  Mr.  Meredith's 
most  generally  known  quality  :  one  of  his  com- 
mentators considers  him  the  greatest  wit  in 
English  literature,  and  sa3's  that  Sheridan  is 
"  not  visible  beside  him  "  ;  but  unsympathetic 
critics  do  not  seem  to  regard  this  as  a  high  com- 
pliment, for  I  have  noticed  that  this  one  quality 
they  will  allow  to  our  author  they  delight  to 
belittle,  saying  that  proverb-making  "  is  no  great 
game,"  and  that  only  an  inferior  type  of  genius 
runs  into  aphorism.  When  one  remembers  that 
the  greatest  writers  practically  live  for  the  vulgar 
by  a  pre-eminent  faculty  of  that  nature,  one  may 
be  pardoned  for  holding  a  different  opinion,  and 
at  least  one  cannot  be  wrong  in  feeling  that  the 
aphorism  is  too  small  a  field  on  which  to  decide 

71 


"The   Pilgrim's   Scrip 


59 


SO  great  an  issue  as  the  measure  of  genius.  After 
all  too  Mr.  Meredith  himself,  with  that  unfailing 
manysidedness  born  of  his  comic  perception,  is 
before  them  in  detraction.  All  that  can  be  said 
against  his  particular  vice  he  has  expressed  in 
phrases  that  give  it  no  mercy. 

"  A  maker  of  proverbs — what  is  he  but  a 
narrow  mind  the  mouthpiece  of  a  narrower  .  .  . 
consider  the  sort  of  minds  influenced  by  set 
sayings.  A  proverb  is  the  half-way  house  to  an 
idea,  I  conceive ;  and  the  majority  rest  there 
content  :  can  the  keeper  of  such  a  house  be 
flattered  by  his  company  ?  "  This  is  his  severe 
judgment  on  Sir  Austin  Feverel,  upon  whose 
foible  he  is  continually  turning  a  humorous 
eye  ;  and,  in  like  manner,  Diana  is  made  to 
regard  the  "  lapidary  sentences "  of  her  own 
special  gift  as  having  merely  "  the  value  of 
chalk-eggs,  which  lure  the  thinker  to  sit." 

A  warning  against  the  exhibition  of  detached 

examples  of  wit  in  that  same  famous  first  chapter 

is  no  less  applicable  to  the  "  wisdom  "  of  George 

Meredith   than  it  was   to  that   of  Dan    Merion's 

sparkling  daughter.      It  can  only  be  truly  known 

in  a  body,  for  it   is  the  many-coloured   product 

of   a    most    peculiarly    complicated    personality, 

72 


"The   Pilgrim's   Scrip" 

Mr.  Meredith  being  so  alive  on  all  sides  of  his 
nature  that  he  has  given  us  utterances  from 
every  contradictory  standpoint. 

It  v^ould  be  hard  to  conceive,  indeed,  a  per- 
sonality vi^hose  component  parts  are  at  once  so 
many  and  so  various,  and  yet  wrought  together 
into  so  subtly  harmonious  a  whole.  Mr.  Meredith 
has  probably  the  most  perfectly  balanced  mind 
of  any  great  modern,  at  once  so  capable  of  high 
enthusiasm,  and  so  rich  in  common  sense.  He 
is  another  example  of  the  sanity  of  the  poet.  He 
has  an  unexampled  gift  of  logic,  and  nothing  gives 
him  greater  amusement  than  the  spectacle  of 
illogicality  in  any  form.  He  simply  cannot 
understand  the  denial  of  fact  for  any  purpose 
whatsoever  ;  and  the  habitual  abnegation  of  it 
for  spiritual  purposes  is  a  strange  puzzle  to 
him.  For  he  himself  is  able  still  to  remain  a 
transcendentaHst,  while  welcoming  all,  and 
materialism  but  inspires  him  with  ''  a  sensual 
faith  in  the  upper  glories." 

He  is  capable  of  frenzies  fine  as  those  of  any 
poet  of  the  century,  and  yet  he  has  all  that 
coolness  of  head,  that  dispassionate  judgment, 
which  popular  superstition  attributes  to  the  man 
of  science — qualities  which,  one  need  hardly  say, 

73 


"The  Pilgrim's  Scrip" 

the  actual  man  of  science  (who  is  nothing  if  not 
a  poet  gone  wrong)  is  pathetically  innocent  of. 

He  is  our  first  scientific  student  of  human 
nature,  and  has  all  the  student's  high  scorn  of 
sentimental  shrinking  from  diagnosis,  that  which 
sees  and  then  rushes  away  "to  interchange  lift- 
ings of  hands  at  the  sight,  instead  of  patiently 
studying  the  phenomenon  of  energy,"  * 

"  Dealing  with  subjects  of  this  nature  emo- 
tionally," said  Percy  Dacier,  "  does  not  advance 
us  a  calculable  inch."  He  never  regrets,  he  has 
a  too  everpresent  sense  of  law.  "  It  was  a 
quality  going,  and   a  quality  coming,"  he  writes 

*  I  cannot  forbear  reference  here  to  the  scathingly  sarcastic 
treatment  of  this  attitude  in  the  sonnet  entitled  "  Whimper  of 
Sympathy,"  printed  in  the  Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life. 

"  Hawk  or  shrike  has  done  this  deed 
Of  downy  feathers:  rueful  sight! 
Sweet  sentimentalist,  invite 
Your  bosom's  power  to  intercede. 

So  hard  it  seems  that  one  must  bleed 
Because  another  needs  must  bite : 
All  round  we  find  cold  Nature  slight 

The  feelings  of  the  totter-knee'd. 

O  it  were  pleasant,  with  you 

To  fly  from  this  tussle  of  foes, 
The  shambles,  the  charnel,  the  wrinkle: 
To  dwell  in  yon  dribble  of  dew 

On  the  cheek  of  your  sovereign  rose, 
And  live  the  young  life  of  a  twinkle." 
74 


^^The   Pilgrim's   Scrip'* 

of  the  passing  away  of  Sandra's  first  maidenly 
simplicity  ;  "  nor  will  we,  if  you  please,  lament  a 
law  of  growth." 

The  natural  result  of  this  manysidedness  is 
that  one  finds  him  claimed  by  men  of  the  most 
diverse  intellectual  complexion.  The  modern 
young  cynic  hails  him  as  master,  imitates  his 
brilliancy  in  many  well-known  columns,  and  yet 
the  most  earnest  of  our  living  workers  claim  him 
for  their  own. 

It  is  odd  that  the  imputation  of  cynicism,  which 
has  long  been  the  one  criticism  of  ignorant 
mediocrity  upon  Thackeray,  should  have  attached 
itself  to  Mr.  Meredith  also.  Indeed  the  word 
'* cynic"  is  the  one  missile  of  a  public  which 
flees  in  nervous  terror  at  the  earliest  indication 
of  satire.  It  never  waits  to  see  against  whom 
it  is  directed  ;  it  is  sufficient  that  it  be  clever  to 
draw  down  the  popgun  pellet.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  there  is  no  more  foundation  for  the  charge 
against  Mr.  Meredith  than  there  was  against  the 
warm-hearted  editor  of  Cornhill. 

His  faith  in  humanity  is  no  less  firm  than  his 
faith  in  life,  and  one  may  be  sure  he  would  never 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  scourge  its  follies  had 
he  not  deemed  it  worth  whipping.     "  Who  is  the 

75 


"The   Pilgrim's   Scrip 


5> 


coward  among  us  ?  He  who  sneers  at  the  failings 
of  humanity,"  wrote  Sir  Austin  in  his  gilt-edged 
note-book.  Again,  in  The  Egoist- — "  Cynicism 
is  intellectual  dandyism  without  the  coxcomb's 
feathers,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  cynics  are  only 
happy  in  making  the  world  as  barren  to  others 
as  they  have  made  it  for  themselves." 

This  charge  of  cynicism  has  arisen,  doubt- 
less, because  Mr.  Meredith  is  so  enamoured  of 
reality  and  refuses  absolutely  to  be  sentimental. 
"  Sacred  Reality,"  he  names  it  in  one  of  his 
poems — real  beauty,  real  greatness,  real  religion. 
To  him  life  is  solemn  with  the  fulness  of  these 
things,  and  of  them  he  is  ever  ready  to  prophesy  ; 
while  he  is  more  than  usually  dowered  with  the 
prophetic  "scorn  of  scorn"  for  the  paltry  imita- 
tions that  usurp  the  worship  of  the  world.  Not 
Carlyle  himself  had  a  more  white-hot  hatred  of 
**  simulacra." 

While  his  philosophy  of  life,  as  has  been  said, 

is  one  of  faith,  it   is  by  no  means  easily  so.      In 

man's  future  he  has  a  most  absolute  trust,  but 

he  none  the  less  insists  that   man   will   have   to 

work  for  it. 

"Only  he 
His  soul  well-knit,  and  all  his  battles  won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal  life," 
76 


"The   Pilgrim's  Scrip" 

He  has  as  little  sentimental  solace  to  offer 
man  for  his  sorrows  here  as  the  sad-smiled  poet 
just  quoted.  Growth  is  ail  he  promises  for 
struggle,  "  at  war  with  ourselves  .  .  .  the  best 
happiness."  He  is  quite  pitiless  in  the  manner 
in  which  he  strips  man  of  his  last  "  blanket  of 
a  dream,"  he  will  allow  him  none  of  his  old 
comfortable  excuses,  and  where  man  whines  of 
fate,  Mr.  Meredith  points  at  folly.  "  You  talk  of 
Fate  !  It's  the  seed  we  sow  individuall}^  or  collec- 
tively." Fools  **  run  jabbering  of  the  irony  of 
fate  to  escape  the  annoyance  of  tracing  the 
causes."  There  is  but  one  way,  "  expediency 
is  man's  wisdom.      Doing  right  is  God's." 

^*  Man  know  thyself  "  is  a  phrase  unfortunately 
associated  with  quacks  of  the  medical  profession, 
but  it,  nevertheless,  is  one  reiterated  lesson  of 
"  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  "— ''  then  be  thyself  "  the 
other. 

In  turning  from  the  matter  to  consider  the 
manner  of  Mr.  Meredith's  phrase-making,  one 
must  not  forget  how,  "  like  all  rapid  phrasers, 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  detested  the  analysis  of  her 
sentence.  It  had  an  outline  in  vagueness  and 
was  flung  out  to  be  apprehended,  not  dissected." 
Yet   it   may  still    be    permissible   to   note   a   few 

77 


'^  The   Pilgrim's  Scrip 


59 


general  characteristics  which  certainly  contribute 
to  give  Mr.  Meredith's  phrases  their  unique 
flavour. 

Its  most  marked  quality  is  that  already  re- 
ferred to,  his  quite  abnormal  instinct  for  analogy. 
This  is  no  little  coloured  by  the  accomplish- 
ment of  learning,  which  enables  him  to  draw 
images  from  the  most  odd  and  out  of  the  way 
places.  Thus  he  writes  of  **  a  world  where  inno- 
cence is  as  poor  a  guarantee  as  a  babe's  caul 
against  shipwreck,"  and  talks  of  ''words  big 
and  oddly  garbed  as  the  pope's  body-guard." 
By  reason  of  the  same  accomplishment  he  is 
able  to  make  use  of  the  technicalities  of  scien- 
tific and  artistic  knowledge,  as  in  that  help- 
ful aphorism  from  Diana — "The  light  of  every 
soul  burns  upward.  Let  us  allow  for  atmos- 
pheric disturbance,"  or  in  a  somewhat  irritating 
fashion  in  passages  such  as  that  in  which 
*'Crossjay's  voice  ran  up  and  down  a  diatonic 
scale,  with  here  and  there  a  query  in  semitone 
and  a  laugh  on  a  ringing  note." 

He  loves  to  send  metaphor,  Ariel-like,  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  fan- 
tastical juxtaposition,  the  result  being  a  kind  of 

literary  grotesque  which  all  who  have  feeling  for 

78 


"The   Pilgrim's   Scrip 


?> 


style  for  its  own  sake  relish,  perhaps,  more  than 
anything  in  his  writing.  Such  phrases  stand  out 
like  gargoyles  in  all  his  books.  Wlien,  for  in- 
stance, a  snore  is  described  as  ''  the  ellin  trumpet 
of  silence,"  or  a  country  feast  as  "  the  nuptials 
of  beef  and  beer  "  ;  when  in  that  charming  scene 
of  simple  comedy  in  Lawyer  Thompson's  office, 
Ripton  grew  aware  that  his  surreptitious  studies 
in  English  fiction  were  being  overlooked  by  his 
irate  father,  and  the  '*  proximity  roused  one  of" 
his  "  senses,  which  blew  a  call  to  the  others  "  ;  or 
when  again  in  that  dear  moment  when  Redworth 
watched  Diana  kindling  the  fire  at  midnight  in 
the  lonely  **  Crossways,"  "  a  little  mouse  of  a 
thought  scampered  out  of  one  of  the  chambers 
of  his  head  and  darted  along  the  passages, 
fetching  a  sweat  to  his  brows." 

It  is  also  owing  to  his  power  of  close  metaphor 
that  his  style  has  often  a  warm  intimacy  of  phrase, 
in  his  dialogue  a  power  of  suggesting,  so  to  say, 
the  very  physical  conditions  of  the  birth  of  a 
phrase  ;  while  his  most  beautiful  bear  a  bloom 
tender  beyond  words.  **  She  coloured  like  a  sea- 
water  shell "  ;  a  double  wild  cherry  in  bloom 
suggests  "  Alpine  snows  in  noon — sunlight,  a 
flush  of  white."    "  He  pronounced  '  Love  '  a  little 

79 


**  The   Pilgrim's   Scrip" 

modestly,  as  it  were,  a  blush  in  his  voice " ; 
^'the  day  was  soft  and  still,  the  flowers  gave 
light  for  light "  ;  Sandra's  face  "  was  like  the 
after-sunset  across  a  rose-garden,  with  the  wings 
of  an  eagle  poised  outspread  on  the  light " ;  and 
after  her  song  the  stillness  settled  back  again 
"like  one  folding  up  a  precious  jewel." 

There  are  no  few  on  whom  some  of  these 
phrases  and  their  like  have  no  other  effect  than 
an  irritation  beyond  mad  bulls.  To  them  they 
are  simply  violations  of  language,  which,  of 
course,  they  are,  if  man  was  made  for  the  dic- 
tionary, and  if  we  are  to  regard  language  as 
a  fixed  unchangeable  institution,  and  not  a  com- 
promise to  be  modified  by  mortal  convenience. 
Mr.  Meredith,  however,  takes  the  latter  view  ;  to 
him  language  is  but  one  big  analog}^ ;  and  when 
one  remembers  how  troubled  poor  old  Colonel 
Newcome  used  to  be  over  Keats,  and  that, 
after  all,  the  world  has  come  to  see  with  Clive 
and  his  friends,  it  gives  one  courage  to  side  with 
him. 

No  few  well-meaning  people  will  tell  one  that 

it   is   not  in   the   power   of  white  to  flush,   and 

that  a  blush  in  the  voice  is  an  impossibility,  that 

"  hours "    have    never   "  crumbled    slowly,"    and 

80 


"The   Pilgrim's   Scrip" 

that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  '*  the  thread  of  a 
look  " ;  to  which  one  can  only  answer  that  there 
is  evidently  then  no  such  thing  as  metaphor,  or 
that  it  is  their  mission  on  earth,  like  Red  worth's, 
to  kill  them  on  the  wing. 

It  may  be  objected  that  such  prose  is  open  to 
the  charge  which  lies  against  most  modern  art, 
and  especially,  perhaps,  against  music,  of  aiming 
beyond  its  particular  genius,  trying  to  do  more 
than  its  conditions  warrant — of  music  to  be 
pictorial,  of  painting  to  be  poetical,  and  of  prose 
to  be  the  synthesis  of  all ;  but,  nevertheless,  the 
canons  of  an  art  are  not  eternal  in  the  heavens, 
and  whether  it  may  legitimately  add  another 
stop  to  its  compass  "  not  argument  but  effort 
shall  decide." 

Of  this  there  can  be  little  doubt,  that  the 
continual  demand  of  our  modern  intensity  for 
expression  that  "  bites  "  can  no  longer  be  met  in 
literature  by  a  simple  use  of  words,  and  that, 
whether  or  not  it  be  in  excess  of  the  need,  Mr. 
Meredith's  style  is  certainly  an  initiative  in  the 
direction  of  the  necessary  raising  of  language  to 
its  higher  powers. 

In  that  power  of  compression  which  is  the 
readiest  road   to  force,  in  the  manufacture,  so   to 

8l  F 


'^The  Pilgrim's  Scrip 


99 


say,  of  the  literary  cartridge,  Mr.  Meredith  has 
no  parallel  except  Browning.  He  almost  stuns 
one  at  times  with  his  perfectly  crushing  force, 
and  any  one  of  his  books  is  as  sternly  invigo- 
rating as  an  electric  bath. 

As  an  example  of  the  vitality  that  can  be 
crushed  into  three  little  words  there  can  be  none 
more  striking  than  that  picture  in  **  the  Woods 
of  Westermain  "  of 

"The  print  that  shows 
Hasty  outward-tripping  toes. 
Heels  to  terror,  on  the  mould." 

The  italics  are,  of  course,  mine.    Such  a  phrase 

may  be  glibly  sneered  at;  one,  indeed,  might  quote 

Mr   Meredith's   own   characterisation   of  Alvan's 

writing  and   say  that  the  telegraph  is  manifestly 

the  model  of  such  style,  but  do  we  really  regret 

the   lost    particles,    demonstrative    pronouns    or 

qualifying  adjectives,   with    which   another   man 

would  have  made  at  least  three   lines  of  what  is 

now  but  three  words  ?    One  feels  the  same  almost 

brutal  power  in  such  a  phrase  as  that  describing 

Attila's   Huns  in  the  Nuptials  of  Attila — ''those 

rock-faces  hung  with  weed."     And  though  these 

references   here  to   his  poetry  may  seem  to  be  a 

little  out  of  place,  they  may,  on  the  other  hand, 

82 


"The   Pilgrim's   Scrip 


55 


introduce    the    question    which    Mr.    Meredith's 

writing  continually  suggests  to  one — whether  this 

power  of  phrase  is  a  specific  prose  characteristic. 

For  my  part,  I  think  that  if  one  were  to  suggest 

that  Mr.  Meredith  was  born  for  verse  and  made 

for  prose,  there  would  doubtless   be   found  many 

to  agree,  and  the  reverse  of  the  famous  dictum  of 

Matthew  Arnold   on   Shelley  might,    I    think,    be 

risked  in  his  case  without  much  fear  of  derision. 

Verse,  per   se,    has   always   a    better    chance  of 

longevity  than  prose,  the  mere  bulk  of  the  latter 

being  one  drawback  in  the  struggle  for  survival. 

Then    there    is    of    necessity    more    lath-and- 

plaster  work   about   prose,  especially  the  novel, 

than  verse,  and   it   is   really  more  a  question   of 

the  relative  durability  of  two  forms  of  art,  than 

an   impossible    comparison    between    the  works 

themselves,  that  one  has  to  settle  in  conjecturing 

whether    indeed    posterity   will    not    know    Mr. 

Meredith  rather  as  the  poet  of  Modern  Love  than 

the  novelist  of  the  Ego. 

Note. — To  any  one  who  cares  about  the  history  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  phrases  it  may  be  interesting  to  note  that  Diana's 
fondness  for  "  antiques  "  dates  back  to  The  Case  of  General  Ople 
and  Lady  Camper  (from  which,  as  has  been  pointed  out  else- 
where, comes  the  title  oi  One  of  our  Conquerors),  one  of  those 
three  uncollected  stories,  of  which  that  fine  bit  of  tragic 
comedy,  The  Tale  of  Chloe,  will  some  day  I  hope,  be  reprinted. 

83 


V 

Woman  in  the  Novels 


Of  all  the  many  matters  on  which  Mr.  Meredith 
has  written,  he  has  written  on  none  so  often,  or 
with  greater  authority  and  charm,  than  on  "  that 
mystery  the  human  heart  Female."  And  was 
this  not  to  be  expected,  for  where  should  a  style 
such  as  his  find  fuller  scope  than  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  woman  ?  In  her  complex  individuality, 
indeed,  it  meets  with  a  subject  for  which  it  has 
no  redundant  powers  ;  for  its  subtlety  her  delicate 
psychology,  and  for  its  poetry  is  there  not  her 
beauty  ?  Mr.  Meredith  has  written  of  her  in 
many  moods,  he  has  said  sly  and  wicked  things 
about  her  innumerable,  wise  things  as  many,  and 
great  and  noble  things  no  few.  The  former  are 
best  known  ;  probably  because  we  still  live  in  a 
masculine  world,  which  delights  not  to  quote 
against  itself  what  woman  can  hardly  quote  in 
her  own  behalf. 

84 


Woman   in  the   Novels 

"  I  expect  that  woman  will  be  the  last  thing 
civihsed  by  man  "  is  often  on  its  lips,  apparently 
unsuspecting  that  the  saying  may  be  two-edged 
and  the  advantages  of  being  "  civilised  by  man" 
problematical  ;  but  it  is  silent  as  to  how  "  primi- 
tive men  abound  and  will  have  their  pasture." 
Because  Mr.  Meredith  often  flirts  with  his  sub- 
ject, it  would  be  a  mistake  indeed  to  think  that 
his  prevailing  mood  in  regard  to  it  is  other  than 
one  of  utter  seriousness — for,  before  one  jests 
with  him  upon  it,  certain  passages  of  "  black 
earnest  "  in  The  Egoist  have  to  be  reckoned  with. 
Certainly,  no  man  has  written  more  mercilessly 
against  the  brutal  selfishness  of  his  own  sex  in 
its  relations  with  woman  ;  by  no  means,  however, 
on  the  platform  of  a  modern  "  woman  question," 
but  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  humanity  far 
broader.  Diana  and  her  sister  queens  would 
hardly  have  won  us  had  they  been  pamphlets  in 
petticoats.  No,  it  is  by  their  womanhood  alone, 
in  Mr.  Meredith's  art  as  in  that  of  any  other 
who  has  won  Hke  success,  that  they  rule  over 
us.  If  asked  what  is  the  quahty  that  especially 
distinguishes  Mr.  Meredith's  woman,  it  would  be 
no  bad  answer  to  say  that  they  eat  well  and  are 
not   ashamed.      In   his   delineation   of  them   his 

85 


Woman   in  the   Novels 

fearless  adoption  of  the  modern  conception  of 
the  unity  of  body  and  spirit  finds  its  poetry. 
No  writer  with  whom  I  am  acquainted  has 
made  us  so  realise  "the  value  and  significance 
of  flesh,"  and  spirit  as  the  flower  of  it.  In  his 
women  we  seem  to  see  the  transmutation  in 
process. 

He  accepts  as  simple  fact  what  Rossetti  was 
at  one  time  so  anathematised  for  expressing, 
he  too  knows  **  not  her  body  from  her  soul," 
and  he  has  been  the  first  of  the  novelists  to 
give  her  to  art  with  all  the  bloom  of  her  sweet 
physical  holiness  upon  her — mulier  as  well  as 
femina.  With  sentimentality  about  her  he  has, 
therefore,  no  patience  whatever.  Of  distinctions 
between  the  sexes  not  founded  on  organism  he 
takes  no  account. 

"  A  girl  that  was  so  like  a  boy  "  was  Sir  Austin 

Feverel's  "ideal  of  a  girl."      I   should  say  it  is 

Mr.  Meredith's  too.      "  The  subsequent  immense 

distinction  "  he  considers  "  less  one  of  sex  than 

of  education."    The  woman  all  feminine,  the  man 

all  masculine  are  terrors  to  him.      That  likeness 

in  difference  of  which  the  Laureate  has  sung  is 

his  ideal  of  the  relations  of  man  and  woman  too. 

*'  You  meet  now  and   then   men,"   he  writes  in 

86 


Woman  in  the   Novels 

The  Tragic  Comedians,  '*  who  have  the  woman  in 
them  without  being  womanised  ;  these  are  the 
pick  of  men.  And  the  choicest  women  are 
those  who  yield  not  a  feather  of  their  womanli- 
ness for  some  amount  of  manlike  strength  .  .  . 
man's  brain,  woman's  heart."  Her  conventional 
"purity,"  sentimental  daintiness,  are  to  him  a 
dangerous  superstition  born  of  the  selfish  gross- 
ness  of  man.  It  is  appetite  not  love  that  makes 
such  demands.  But  '*  love :  a  word  in  many 
mouths  not  often  explained,"  what  is  that  but 
"  a  finer  shoot  of  the  tree  stoutly  planted  in  good 
gross  earth  ;  the  senses  pouring  their  live  sap, 
and  the  minds  companioned,  and  the  spirits  made 
one  by  the  whole-natured  conjunction."  Mr. 
Meredith  has  nothing  but  scorn  for  that  artificial 
line  of  demarcation  between  the  sexes  embodied 
in  the  ladies  "  retiring "  from  the  dinner-table. 
If  the  gentlemen's  after-dinner  wine  and  wit  are 
good  things  for  the  husband,  there  is  no  reason 
in  nature  why  they  should  not  be  so  for  the  wife 
also  ;  and  if  not  good  for  him,  why,  he  should 
have  the  manliness  to  give  them  up  altogether. 
One  can  hardly  be  wrong  in  reading  Alvan's 
robust  conception  of  wifehood  in  The  Tragic 
Comedians  as  Mr.   Meredith's  own.       It  was  not 

87 


Woman   in  the   Novels 

only  on   the   heights  of  mind  and  heart   that   he 

and   his   Clotilde  were   to  meet,  but  whatsoever 

things  of  sense  were  wholesome  for  him,  should 

she  not  share  them  too — wine  and  all  ? 

"  They  marched  to  the  table  together,  and  sat  together, 
and  drank  a  noble  Rhine  wine  together — true  Rauenthal. 
His  robustness  of  body  and  soul  inspired  the  wish  that  his 
well-born  wife  might  be,  in  her  dainty  fashion,  yet  honestly 
and  without  mincing,  his  possible  boonfellow :  he  and  she, 
glass  in  hand,  thanking  the  bountiful  heavens,  blessing  man- 
kind in  chorus.  It  belonged  to  his  hearty  dream  of  the  wife 
he  would  choose,  were  she  to  be  had." 

This  idea  of  a  "  fair  boonfellow  of  the  rollick- 
ing faun "  is  surely  better  than  the  sneaking 
indulgence  every  man  must  feel  his  *'  after- 
dinner  "  hour  to  be. 

To   love   the  flower  and   be  ashamed   of  the 

root  is  a  pitiable  silliness  in  Mr.  Meredith's  eyes. 

To  stand   entranced  at   Lucy's  terrible  youthful 

beauty,  and   to  object   to  that  plumping  of  her 

exquisite  proportions  on    bread   and   butter  (and 

"  worse  !  ")  without  which  that  dazzling  bloom  of 

health  could   never  have   been  upon   her  cheek  ; 

to  ascend   heaven  on   an   aria   and   object  to  the 

tired  prima  donna  recuperating  on  bottled  stout, 

is   incomprehensible   illogicality.       ''True   poets 

and  true  women   have  the  native   sense  of  the 

divineness    of   what     the    world     deems     gross 

88 


Woman  in  the   Novels 

material  substance,"  he  writes  in  Diana^  and  it 
is  because  Mr.  Meredith  too  feels  that  divineness 
with  such  a  passionate  faith  and  worship,  knows 
it  so  to  be  **  at  the  founts  of  the  world,"  that  the 
make-believe  poetry  of  sentimentalism  seems  such 
a  laborious  foolishness  to  him — as  though  men 
should  become  too  fastidious  for  the  "  gross- 
ness  "  of  natural  sunlight,  and  choose  to  live  by 
some  glow-worm  extract  of  cucumber.  That 
woman  should  need  stage-lights  to  make  her 
wonderful  seems  the  very  strangest  of  errors. 
Why,  she  herself  is  a  star  ! — a  swaddled  star 
(if  the  phrase  be  not  too  wild),  swaddled  in  no 
end  of  sentimental  muslins  and  exhibited  by 
Chinese  lantern.  To  tear  these  wrappages  every 
one  away,  to  put  that  stupid  light  out,  and  give 
her  back  to  us  again  in  all  her  old  wonderful 
shining,  that  is  what  Mr.  Meredith  has  set  him- 
self to  do  for  her  and  us. 

Woman  is  really  a  tradition  with  us  to-day,  a 
superstition,  whose  priests  are  the  sentimental- 
ists, latter-day  guardians  of  a  revelation  which 
long  ago  had  life  in  it,  but  which  they  have  so 
perverted  that  it  is  hard  to  see  in  its  feeble 
survival  any  trace  of  the  old  chivalric  ideal.  Mr. 
Meredith  comes  with  a  new  revelation  of  her  old 

89 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

divineness,  for  a  long  time  now  little  more  than 

a  rumour  kept  in  circulation  by  men  for  the  sake 

of  resultant  gratification   on  lower  planes.      To 

quote  his  own  words  once  more,  he  destroys  the 

poetry  of  sentimental  woman,    "  the   ideal  of  a 

waxwork   sex,"  to  give   us  woman  as  she  is,  a 

starry    reality    "  undreamed    of    by    sentimental 

man."      He    brings    to   us    a    poet's    assurance, 

deepest  of  all,  of  the  truth  of  that  old  instinct  of 

man  that  has  given  us  Sybil  and  Norn.    Woman 

is  nearer  to  nature's  heart  than  man,  as  the  poet 

is  nearer ;  she   lives  more  with  the  great  things 

that  alone  make  life  worth  having  than  he ;  she 

values  the    Eternities,  and   has   but   little  of  his 

comical    seriousness    with    regard    to    temporal 

things  ;   and   by   that    reliance   on    her  instincts 

and    intuitions  of   which  man    has    from    time 

immemorial   made   mock,    she  rises   among   his 

conventions,  an  ever-springing  fount  of  natural 

illumination.      It    is    for    this    reason    that    she 

means   so  much   to  him,   and  for   Mr.  Meredith 

she  means  all.       ''They   are   our   ordeal,"   said 

Sir    Austin,   warning    Richard    that  *'  there  are 

women  in  the  world,  my  son  "  ;   and  again  in  The 

Egoist — 

"  Women  have  us  back  to  the  conditions  of  primitive  man, 

90 


Woman   in   the  Novels 

or  they  shoot  us  higher  than  the  topmost  star.  But  it  is  as 
we  please.  Let  them  tell  us  what  we  are  to  them :  for  us, 
they  are  our  back  and  front  of  life ;  the  poet's  Lesbia,  the 
poet's  Beatrice ;  ours  is  the  choice.  And  were  it  proved  that 
some  of  the  bright  things  are  in  the  pay  of  Darkness,  with 
the  stamp  of  his  coin  on  their  palms,  and  that  some  are  the 
very  angels  we  hear  sung  of,  not  the  less  might  we  say  that 
they  find  us  out,  they  have  us  by  our  leanings.  They  are  to 
us  what  we  hold  of  best  or  worst  within.  By  their  state  is 
our  civilisation  judged  :  and  if  it  is  hugely  animal  still,  that  is 
because  primitive  men  abound  and  will  have  their  pasture." 

"Ours  is  the  choice"  because  ours  is  that 
strength,  of  body  and  brain,  of  which,  as  Mr. 
Meredith  is  constantly  insisting,  woman  is  by 
nature  so  resistlessly  a  worshipper ;  hers  is  the 
Hght  of  the  spirit,  but  where  and  how  it  shall 
burn  is  for  man  to  say,  it  is  in  the  power  of  his 
strength  as  a  lamp  in  the  hand.  But  woe  to  him 
if  he  use  it  ill  !  ''For  women  are  not  the  end, 
but  the  means  of  life,  and  they  punish  us  for  so 
perverting  their  uses.  They  punish  society."  A 
man's  relations  to  woman,  how  he  regards  her, 
how  he  acts  towards  her,  are  the  most  significant 
things  about  him.  The  whole  tragi-comedy  of 
The  Egoist  comes,  as  has  been  seen,  of  the  testing 
of  Sir  Willoughby  by  woman  ;  and  the  phrase 
Mr.  Meredith  uses  to  describe  one  woman  in 
Rhoda  Fleming  would,  doubtless,  more  or  less, 
also  represent  to  him  the  whole  sex — *'  a  crucible- 

91 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

woman/'  one  "in  contact  with  whom  you  were 
soon  resolved  to  your  component  parts."  Of 
that  perversion  of  her  uses  Mr.  Meredith,  as  I 
have  already  hinted,  has  much  to  say,  and  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  woman  has  yet  had  no  such 
ally  in  her  battle  against  mascuHnity  as  he ;  all 
the  more  precious  because  he  is  able  to  look  at 
both  sides,  and  as  well  as  taking  part  in  the 
battle  with  all  his  various  powers,  is  able  to  do 
good  camp-service  in  arming  her  against  herself. 
Most  men  who  take  up  the  cause  of  woman  do 
so  sentimentally,  as  her  slave ;  Mr.  Meredith 
rather  fights  as  her  captain,  the  only  way,  as  I 
fancy  he  has  somewhere  said,  for  man  to  help 
her.  He  can  laugh  at  her  too,  which  senti- 
mental man  dare  never,  and  to  be  able  to  laugh 
at  a  woman  is  to  have  her  in  one's  power.  Over 
her  various  quixotries,  and  all  her  serious-faced 
patents  for  **  emancipating "  her  sex,  he  is  as 
merry  as  Adrian  Harley  on  the  solemn  plotting 
of  Richard  and  Ripton  ;  and  for  the  female  fad- 
dist and  philanthropist  he  has  as  little  mercy  as 
Thackeray.  **  Relapsed  upon  religion  and  little 
dogs "  is  his  caustic  characterisation  of  Mrs. 
Caroline     Grandison,    into   whose    ''garden    of 

girls  "  Sir  Austin  Feverel  carried   the  Cinderella 

92 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

slipper  on  behalf  of  his  model  son,  and  into  the 
secrets  of  whose  patent  female  forcing-house  we 
are  allowed  to  follow  him,  led  by  the  good  woman 
herself — that  gymnasium  fitted-up  with  "  swing- 
poles,  and  stride-poles,  and  newly  invented  in- 
struments for  bringing  out  special  virtues :  an 
instrument  for  the  lungs  ;  an  instrument  for  the 
liver ;  one  for  the  arms  and  thighs  ;  one  for  the 
wrists ;  the  whole  for  the  promotion  of  the 
Christian  accomplishments."  "Woolly  negroes 
blest  her  name,  and  whiskered  John  Thomases 
deplored  her  weight  "  is  another  phrase  by  which 
she  is  commended  to  our  unforgetfulness.  And 
what  characterisation  of  a  well-known  type  of 
woman  could  be  better  than  this  of  Lucie, 
Baroness  von  Crefeldt,  in  The  Tragic  Comedians, 
who,  we  are  told,  "was  one  of  those  persons 
who  after  a  probationary  term  in  the  character 
of  woman,  had  become  men." 

One  of  Mr.  Meredith's  favourite  pleasantries 
is  to  take  woman  at  her  word,  and  give  her  the 
hearing  of  that  "  reason  "  of  her  possession  of 
which  she  is  so  anxious  to  assure  us  ;  then  with 
a  face  of  mock-seriousness  expose  her  delicious 
illogicalities,  her  valiant  sophistries,  and  send 
her  back  to  her  feminine  defences  with  the  pout 

93 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

he  has  watched  for — "  you  expect  me  to  be  all 
reason  ! " 

"  '  Wise  or  not,  he  has  the  right  to  scheme  his  best  to  keep 
you,'  said  Vernon  Whitford,  as  Clara  took  him  into  her  con- 
spiracy against  Sir  Willoughby.  She  looked  on  Vernon  with 
a  shade  of  wondering  reproach — '  Why  ?  what  right  ? ' 

'  The  right  you  admit  when  you  ask  him  to  release  you.'" 

To  Struggle  for  days  in  the  net  and  then  to 
exclaim  "  What  net  ?  " — is  not  this  woman  ? 
And,  again,  what  could  be  more  delicious  than 
Adrian's  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  Richard's  in- 
dignant vindication  of  Lucy  from  the  blame  of 
his  marriage. 

"  '  She  did  all  she  could  to  persuade  me  to  wait ! '  empha- 
sised Richard.  Adrian  shook  his  head  with  a  deplorable 
smile. 

•  Come,  come,  my  good  Ricky ;  not  all !  not  all ! '  Richard 
bellowed :  '  What  more  could  she  have  done  ? ' 

'  She  could  have  shaved  her  head,  for  instance.'  " 

Wholesome  laughter  is  perhaps  woman's 
greatest  need,  it  blows  away  the  sentimental 
gossamer  (I  had  almost  written  cobweb),  and  Mr. 
Meredith's  is  as  generous  as  his  own  South-West. 
The  rare  cynical  ring  in  it  is  kept  for  those 
negative  types  for  whom  few  of  us  would  cry 
mercy.  Mr.  Meiedith  is  able  too,  I  said,  to  look 
at  both  sides  of  the  great  conflict.  While  untiring 
in  his   denunciation   of   man's   unworthy   use  of 

94 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

woman's  divineness,  he  does  not  forget  that  ^'  bad 
is  two-sexed  upon  earth,"  and  that  man's  is  only 
half  the  apple.  If  he  so  passionately  appreciates 
her  special  greatness,  it  is  not  to  forget  man's  ; 
while  he  recognises  that  the  weakness  of  either 
sex  is  but  an  overgrowth  of  its  strength — woman 
becoming  the  slave  rather  than  the  mistress  of 
those  senses  through  which  her  illumination 
comes,  and  man  driven  by  rather  than  driving 
that  brain  which  is  the  fount  of  his  strength. 

"  Get  you  something  of  our  purity 
And  we  will  of  your  strength  :  we  ask  no  more," 

said  the  Fair  Ladies  in  Revolt,  in  that  charming 
and  masterly  ballad  in  which  Mr.  Meredith 
embodies  a  duel  in  dialogue  between  the  sexes — 
with  the  result  that  the  ladies  won  one  of  their 
two  opponents,  who  had  from  the  first,  indeed, 
remained  suspiciously  silent  during  his  friend's 
attack.  Strength,  otherwise  brain,  "  more  brain, 
O  Lord,  more  brain  ! "  that — Mr.  Meredith's 
universal  specific — is  woman's  need,  though  one 
hesitates  to  chime  in  at  once  with  "purity"  for 
man,  remembering  a  notable  saying  of  Sir  Austin 
Feverel's,  as  he  complimented  Lady  Blanche  on 
her  woman's  worship  of  strength — **  strength  in 
whatever  form  "  is  '*  the  child  of  heaven  ;  whereas 

95 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

purity  is  a  characteristic  and  can  be  spotted — how 
soon  I " — remembering  that  and  the  inevitable 
corollary  which  Lady  Blanche  at  once  detected, 
but  which  only  one  of  Mr.  Meredith's  dramatis 
personce  could  have  so  neatly  formulated — "  I  see," 
she  said  archly,  *'  we  are  the  lovelier  vessels  ;  you 
claim  the  more  direct  descent.  Men  are  seedlings  : 
women  slips  !  "  Now,  of  course,  Mr.  Meredith 
does  not  mean  that,  and  when  he  says  that 
man's  need  is  purity  I  cannct  think  that  he  uses 
the  word  merely  as  Sir  Austin  did,  for  that  would 
be  to  name  all  that  something  "which  places 
woman  so  high  "  a  paltry  gloss  indeed,  and  re- 
duce the  feminine  to  a  poor  sum  of  degrees  north 
or  south  of  man,  when  does  not  the  whole  of 
nature  witness  it  as  one  of  the  two  equal  poles  on 
which  the  world  spins  round  ?  I  shall  not  venture 
to  say  exactly  what  Mr.  Meredith  does  mean,  but 
suggest  the  substitution  of  the  word  *'  spirit  "  for 
'*  purity,"  as  one  has  already  written  "  brain  "  for 
"  strength,"  and  leave  the  masculine  reader  to 
think  out  his  need  for  himself.  Whether  Mr, 
Meredith's  specific  is  indeed  the  feminine  panacea 
he  asserts  lovers  of  Diana  may,  perhaps,  be 
pardoned  for  doubting,  for  she  had  brain,  surely, 

and  yet   if  her  story  means  anything  it   would 

96 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

seem  to  testify  against  Mr.  Meredith's  theory ; 
at  every  important  crisis  of  her  life  her  brain 
seemed  at  once  to  abdicate,  and  leave  her  at  the 
mercy  of  her  impulses.  Once  a  woman  always  a 
woman.  Besides  is  not  brain  also  "two-sexed  on 
earth"  ?  At  least  I  found  Mr.  Meredith  paying  a 
compliment  to  "  the  fine  brain  of  woman  "  some- 
where, I  am  certain — and  .  .  .  but  I  can  fancy 
Mr.  Meredith  exclaiming  with  Alvan,  "  Oh,  she's 
a  riddle,  of  course.  I  don't  pretend  to  spell  every 
letter  of  her." 

And  yet  how  many  has  he  spelt !  It  would 
seem  indeed  that  he  has  "  sprouted "  those 
"  petticoats  "  which  Tracy  Runningbrook  sighed 
the  lack  of  "  for  the  answering  of  purely  feminine 
questions  " ;  or  as  if  in  some  mystic  manner  he 
had  become  initiated  mason-wise  into  their  sex. 
For  all  their  nuances ^  all  their  "  feminine  silk- 
flashes  of  meaning,"  seem  familiar  to  him,  every 
little  trick  of  their  nerves,  every  whim  of  their 
blood,  every  warm  sweet  secrecy  of  it  too.  Yet 
with  what  an  exquisitely  tender  reverence  does 
he  touch  them,  like  some  gentle  physician  with 
his  stethoscope  at  the  bosom  of  a  blushing  girl. 
What  a  bloom  is  there  on  every  dear  revelation  ! 
That  picture  of  Sandra  ''  glad  to  extinguish  the 

97  G 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

candle  and  be  covered  up  dark  in  the  circle  of  her 

warmth  "  ;  or  the  observation  of  **  the  mellowed 

depth,  the  soft  human  warmth,  which  marriage 

had  lent  to  her  voice  "  in  after  years  in  Italy.      If 

any  other  man  has  written  of  motherhood  as  Mr. 

Meredith  has  written  I  have  yet  to  meet  with  his 

work.      I  suppose  there  are  poor  folk  in  the  world 

capable  of  misunderstanding  those  delicate  pages 

in  Richard  Feverel  which  tell  how  Lucy's 

"  Innocent  maidenhood  awoke 
To  married  innocence  " 

under  the  delicious  care  of  good  "  Bessie  Berry  " 
— but,  like  Modern  Love  and  everything  great  or 
beautiful  in  the  world,  such  writing 

"  is  not  meat 
For  little  people  or  for  fools," 

and,  happily,  the  world  is  not  quite  made  up  of 

such.      Mr.  Meredith  is  safe  with  the  rest. 

I  do  not  propose  here  to  consider  one  by  one 

those  individual  women  "  whose  names  are  five 

sweet  symphonies."      Apart  from  the  question  of 

space,  I  cannot  see  whom  it  would  benefit.      To 

imagine  that  I  could  in  a  page  or  two  give  them 

to  the  reader  who  has  yet  to  know  them  would 

be   a   poor   compliment   to  their   perfection,   and 

what  reader  who  knows  them  already  would  not 

98 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

be  filled  with  furious  impatience  at  the  presump- 
tuous surplusage  ?  Moreover,  I  have  nothing  of 
the  nature  of  British  "  criticism  "  to  offer  upon 
them,  and  passages  of  exclamatory  admiration, 
unless  one  can  do  them  as  well  as  Mr.  Swinburne, 
are  little  profitable. 

Diana  Warwick,  Sandra  Belloni,  Clara  Middle- 
ton,  Rhoda  Fleming,  Cecilia  Halkett — "  Shake- 
speare's women"  all ;  and  let  no  man  miss  Alvan's 
Clotilde,  imperishable  type  of  that  feminine 
cowardice  to  which,  Mr.  Meredith  says,  all  young 
women  are  trained  ;  or  that  wonderful  study  of 
woman  in  her  great  natural  role  of  charlatan,  the 
Countess  de  Saldar.  And  these,  of  course,  are 
not  all,  nor  are  the  rest  forgotten  though 
unnamed.  Could  one  forget  a  Renee  thus 
described  ? — 

"...  a  brunette  of  the  fine  lineaments  of  the  good 
blood  of  France.  She  chattered  snatches  of  Venetian  caught 
from  the  gondoliers,  she  was  like  a  delicate  cup  of  crystal 
brimming  with  the  beauty  of  the  place,  and  making  one  .  .  . 
drink  in  all  his  impressions  through  her.  Her  features  had 
the  soft  irregularities  which  run  to  rarities  of  beauty,  as  the 
ripple  rocks  the  light;  mouth,  eyes,  brows,  nostrils,  and 
bloomy  cheeks  played  into  one  another  liquidly ;  thought 
flew,  tongue  followed,  and  the  flash  of  meaning  quivered  over 
them  like  night-lightning.  Or  oftener,  to  speak  truth,  tongue 
flew,  thought  followed:  her  age  was  but  newly  seventeen, 
and  she  was  rrench." 

99 


Woman  in  the  Novels 

This  is  as  good  as  the  famous  '^  dainty  rogue 
in  porcelain "  or  "  the  look  of  the  nymph  that 
had  gazed  too  long  on  the  faun,  and  had  unwit- 
tingly copied  his  lurking  lip  and  long  sliding 
eye "  ;  phrases  belonging  to  that  Clara  whom 
Mr.  Meredith  seems  to  have  determined  to  make 
blessed  above  women,  if  description  could  do  it ; 
though,  in  truth,  there  is  no  woman  he  has  ever 
written  about  who  does  not  live  in  our  memory 
by  some  such  vivid  phrase  or  sensitive  character- 
isation. His  style  certainly  attains  its  finest 
flower  in  her  service  ;  that  dehcate  power  of  dis- 
tinguishing "the  half-tones  humming  round  the 
note  of  a  strung  wire,  which  is  a  blunt  single 
note  to  the  common  ear,"  and  that  touch  so  light 
to  render  every  impression  with  its  virgin  bloom. 
As  I  have  given  the  exoteric  reader  but  little 
opportunity  of  judging  for  himself,  I  shall  not 
apologise  to  any  who  may  know  the  passage  by 
heart  for  quoting  here  probably  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  all  Mr.  Meredith's  descriptions  of  woman, 
that  of  Clara  walking  in  a  breeze. 

"...  she  wore  a  dress  cunning  to  embrace  the  shape  and 
flutter  loose  about  it,  in  the  spirit  of  a  summer's  day. 
Calypso-clad,  Dr.  Middleton  would  have  called  her.  See 
the  silver  birch  in  a  breeze :  here  it  swells,  there  it  scatters, 
and  it  is  puffed  to  a  round  and  it  streams  like  a  pennon,  and 

100 


Woman  in  the   Novels 

now  gives  the  glimpse  and  shine  of  the  white  stem's  line 
within,  now  hurries  over  it,  denying  that  it  was  visible,  with 
a  chatter  along  the  sweeping  folds,  while  still  the  white  peeps 
through.  She  had  the  wonderful  art  of  dressing  to  suit  the 
season  and  the  sky.  To-day  the  art  was  ravishingly  com- 
panionable with  her  sweet-lighted  face;  too  sweet,  too 
vividly  meaningful  for  pretty,  if  not  of  the  strict  severity  for 
beautiful.  Millinery  would  tell  us  that  she  wore  a  fichu  of 
thin  white  muslin  crossed  in  front  on  a  dress  of  the  same 
light  stuff,  trimmed  with  deep  rose.  She  carried  a  grey-silk 
parasol,  traced  at  the  borders  with  green  creepers,  and  across 
the  arm  devoted  to  Crossjay,  a  length  of  trailing  ivy,  and  in 
that  hand  a  bunch  of  the  first  long  grasses.  These  hues  of 
red  rose  and  green  and  pale  green,  ruffled  and  pouted  in  the 
billowy  white  of  the  dress  ballooning  and  valleying  softly, 
like  a  yacht  before  the  sail  bends  low ;  but  she  walked  not 
like  one  blown  against ;  resembling  rather  the  day  of  the 
South-West  driving  the  clouds,  gallantly  firm  in  commotion  ; 
interfusing  colour  and  varying  in  her  features  from  laugh  to 
smile  and  look  of  settled  pleasure,  like  the  heavens  above  the 
breeze." 

Such  a  picture  as  this,  such  poetry  with  such 
particularisation,  seems  to  me  not  only  a  triumph 
for  Mr.  Meredith,  but  for  the  literary  art  itself. 
And  this  coral-island  perfection  is  all  the  more 
striking  in  a  writer  who  is  such  a  master  of  a 
method  so  diifferent  as  his  own  great  impres- 
sionism. 


lOI 


«■«•       t  ,  c 


VI 

''  Modern  Love  "  and  Nature 
Poetry 

A  CULT  within  a  cult  is  an  interesting  literary 
development,  and  such,  if  it  be  not  already 
established,  it  will  be  quite  safe  to  predict 
before  long  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Meredith.  For, 
now  that  his  novels  are  threatened  with  popu- 
larity, it  will  be  strange  if  that  "acute  and 
honourable  minority  "  which  has  so  long  rejoiced 
in  secret  "  to  be  thwacked  with  aphorisms  and 
sentences  and  a  fantastic  delivery  of  the  verities  " 
does  not  intrench  itself  behind  his  verse.  It 
pays  the  penalty  of  that  insane  desire  to  "go 
shares "  in  a  new  thing  which  is  so  common 
that  it  should  conclusively  demonstrate  the 
altruism  of  humanity,  and  of  which,  of  course, 
the  present  volume  is  a  paradoxical  example ; 
it  has  called   in  the  man  from  the  highways  to 

102 


^^  Modern   Love,"   etc. 

the  feast  only  to  find  that  really,  after  all,  it  is 
impossible  for  them  to  eat  together.  It  is  begin- 
ning to  feel  what  Mr.  John  Addington  Symonds, 
for  example,  will  to  a  certainty  one  day  experience, 
if  he  is  not  already  repenting  his  generous 
impulse  to  "  share  "  his  secluded  Davos. 

The  recent  outcry  concerning  Mr.  Meredith's 
novels  has  already  attracted  the  excursionists  of 
literature ;  there  are  fatal  signs  of  them  in  the 
beloved  land.  It  is  already  considered  necessary 
to  read  those  arcana  without  understanding,  or  to 
lie  about  them ;  and  that  old  minority  will  be 
fortunate  if  it  still  keeps  its  faith  before  the 
spectacle  of  ungainly  and  foolish  conversion. 

But  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Meredith's  verse  his 
disciples  may,  I  think,  rest  secure  of  intrusion  ; 
for  it  is  long  since  it  was  deemed  necessary  to 
read  good  poetry,  and  all  who  love  it  in  sincerity 
and  truth  will  hope  it  may  be  still  longer  before 
it  is  deemed  so  again.  Thanks  to  that,  poetry  at 
the  present  time  is  the  one  art  comparatively  free 
from  vulgarisation,  our  one 

"Shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea." 

Thus,  happier  than  the  man  who  discovers  a 

new  novelist,  the  critic  of  poetry  may  reveal  his 

103 


a 


Modern   Love,"  etc. 


latest  find  without  danger  of  invasion  from 
Philistia  ;  only  those  who  are  really  his  fellows 
will  have  ears  to  hear,  he  will  win  that  sympathy 
which  is  so  passionate  a  need,  and  none  the  less 
escape  the  garlic-eating  "  brother." 

Most  of  us  have,  I  suspect,  come  to  Mr. 
Meredith's  verse  by  way  of  his  prose,  which  in 
the  case  of  almost  any  other  writer  would  mean 
with  a  presumption  against  it,  except,  of  course, 
in  so  far  as  it  might  be  modified  by  gratitude 
for  past  delight  or  that  curiosity  which  always 
attaches  to  an  artist's  essays  in  a  new  medium. 

Many  prose-writers — the  majorit3^in  fact — have 
first  written  verse;  yet,  as  it  has  been  to  them 
(what,  indeed,  it  is  becoming  the  fashion  to  re- 
gard it  all  round)  but  as  the  grindstone  on  which 
to  sharpen  the  fine  tools  of  prose,  their  verse  has 
more  interest  than  value.  It  is  but  the  leaf,  not 
the  flower  of  their  genius.  Mr.  Meredith's  prose, 
however,  is  generally  so  akin  in  its  imaginative 
method  to  verse,  that  one  comes  with  confidence 
to  his  rhymed  poetry,  expecting  at  least  the  same 
qualities  of  power  as  have  already  won  us.  Nor 
are  we  disappointed.  For,  although  Mr.  Meredith 
has    undoubtedly   sharpened    the   tools  of  prose 

upon    his   verse,    it   has   been    as   one    knife   is 

104 


^'Modern   Love,"  etc. 

sharpened   on    another   knife,   and    certainly  the 

flower  of  his  genius  is  double. 

That  185 1  volume  of  "  Poems,"  on  which  the 

bookish  virtuoso  sets  such  price,  is  really  worth 

more    to   art    than    one    would    expect    from    a 

knowledge  of  its  foster-parent — for,  pleasant  and 

certainly  happiest  of  fellows  as  the  "  bookman  " 

is,  how  rarely  does  he  rescue  us  a  diamond  from 

his  dustheap  !      Oddity  and   sentiment  are  dear 

to  him,  but  he   has  weak   eyes  for  greatness — 

saving  exceptions,  of  course,  among  which  count 

these  *'  Poems,  by  George  Meredith.      John  W. 

Parker   and    Sons,    185 1."      And    these    became 

dear,  we  may  be  sure,  through  no  recognition  of 

a  new  eye  upon  nature  in  The  South-West  Wind 

in  the    Woodland  and    the  Pastorals,   or  of    the 

delicious   freshness   of    note    and   chasteness  of 

touch  of  Love  in  the  Valley^  but  through  a  canny 

forecast  of  "  the  Meredith  market  "  that  was  to  be. 

And,  indeed,  a  casual  glance  therein  might  easily 

have  missed  the  significance  of  the  book,  for  the 

greater  part  of  it    is   made   up   of  the   graceful 

sentimentahties  and   insipid    ''antiques"   of  the 

"  keepsake  "  school,  though  here  and  there  is  a 

line  or  a  lyric  decidedly  beyond  them.     But  had 

it  once  fallen   upon  a  page  of  that   South- West 

105 


"Modern   Love/'  etc. 

Wind  there  should  have  been  no  mistake.  Rare 
twins,  the  eye  of  a  naturahst  and  the  voice  of  a 
poet,  were  unmistakably  present. 

"The  great  south-west  drives  o'er  the  earth, 
And  loosens  all  his  roaring  robes 
Behind  him,  over  heath  and  moor," 

for  none  but  a  poet  with  an  imagination  as  mas- 
culine as  his  voice,  and  who  else  gives  us  lines  of 
description  such  as  these  ? 

"  Now  whirring  like  an  eagle's  wing 
Preparing  for  a  wide  blue  flight, — 
Now  flapping  like  a  sail  that  tacks 
And  chides  the  wet  bewildered  mast, 
Now  screaming  like  an  anguished  thing 
Chased  close  by  some  down-breathing  beak. 
Now  wailing  like  a  breaking  heart, 
That  will  not  wholly  break,  but  hopes 
With  hope  that  knows  itself  in  vain  ; 
Now  threatening  like  a  storm-charged  cloud, 
Now  cooing  like  a  woodland  dove. 
Now  up  again  in  roar  and  wrath 
High  soaring  and  wide  sweeping,  now 
With  sudden  fury  dashing  down 
Full-force  on  the  awaiting  woods." 

What  poet  even    unless    he   have    added    the 

naturalist's  sensitive  instinct,  which  hears  without 

listening,  sees  without  watching,  and  remembers 

without   a   book.       The   south-west    wind    is    a 

passion   with   Mr.  Meredith.      It  often   blows  in 

his  novels,  and  there  is  another  fine  poem  to  it 

1 06 


"Modern   Love/'   etc. 

in  A  Reading  of  Earth.  "  Love  in  the  Valley  " 
is  the  one  poem  Mr.  Meredith  has  deemed 
worthy  of  reprinting.  It  reappears  with  much 
new  beauty  in  the  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  foy 
of  Earth.  But  there  is  one  at  least  of  the 
*'  Pastorals "  which  should  surely  have  been 
reprinted  too,  and  from  which,  as  the  volume 
is  so  rarely  to  be  seen,  I  shall  venture  to  make 
a  somewhat  lengthy  quotation  : 

"  Summer  glows  warm  on  the  meadows ;  then  come,  let  us 

roam  thro'  them  gaily, 
Heedless  of  heat,  and  the  hot-kissing  sun,  and  the  fear  of 

dark  freckles ; 
For  never  one  kiss  will  he  give  on  a  neck,  or  a  lily-white 

forehead, 
Chin,  hand,  or  fair  bosom  uncover'd,  all  panting,  to  take  the 

chance  coolness, — 
But  surely  the  hot  fiery  pressure  shall  leave  its  brown  seal  of 

espousal. 
Still  heed  him  not ;  come,  tho'  he  kiss  till  the  soft  little  upper- 
lip  loses 
Half  its  pure  whiteness  ;  just  speckl'd  where  the  curve  of  the 

rosy  mouth  reddens. 

Come,  let  him  kiss,  let  him  kiss,  and  his  kiss  shall  make  thee 

the  sweeter, 
Thou  art  no  nun  veil'd  and   vow'd;  doom'd  to  nourish  a 

withering  pallor ! 
City  exotics  beside  thee  would  show  like  bleach'd  linen  at 

mid-day. 
Hung  upon  hedges  of  eglantine !     Thou  in  the  freedom  of 

nature, 
Full  of  her  beauty  and  wisdom,  gentleness,  joyance,  and 

kindliness ! 

107 


"Modern  Love,"  etc. 

Come,  and  like  bees  we  will  gather  the  rich  golden  honey  of 

noontide ; 
Deep  in  the  sweet  summer  meadows,  border'd  by  hillside  and 

river ; 
Lined  with  long  trenches  half-hidden,  where,  sweetest,  the 

smell  of  white  meadow-sweet 
Blissfully  hovers — O  sweetest !  but  pluck  it  not !  even  in  the 

tenderest 
Grasp  it  will  lose  breath  and  wither ;  like  many,  not  made 

for  a  posy. 

See  the  sun  slopes  down  the  meadows,  where  all  the  flowers 

are  falling ! 

Falling  unhymn'd ;  for  the  nightingale  scarce  ever  charms 
the  long  twilight ; 

Mute  with  the  cares  of  the  nest ;  only  known  by  a  '  chuck, 
chuck,'  and  dovelike 

Low  call  of  content,  but  the  finch  and  the  linnet  and  black- 
cap pipe  loudly. 

From  elms  round  the  western  hillside  warbles  the  rich-bill'd 
ouzel ; 

And  the  shrill  throstle  is  filling  the  dusky  thickening  copses  ; 

Singing  o'er  hyacinths  hid,  and  most  honey'd  of  flowers, 
white  field-rose. 

O  joy  thus  to  revel  all  day  in  the  grass  of  our  own  beloved 

country ; 
Revel  all  day,  till  the  lark  mounts  at  eve  with  his  sweet 

'  tirra-lirra ' ; 
Thrilling  delightfully.     See,  on  the  river  the  slow  rippled 

surface 
Shining ;   the  slow  ripple  broadens  in  circles ;  the  bright 

surface  smoothens ; 
Now  it  is  flat  as  the  leaves  of  the  yet  unseen  water-lily. 
There  dart  the  lives  of  a  day,  ever-varying  tactics  fantastic. 
There  by  the  wet-mirror'd  osiers,  the  emerald  wing  of  the 

kingfisher 

io8 


"Modern   Love,"   etc. 

Flashes,  the  fish  in  his  beak  !     There  the  dab-chick  dived, 

and  the  motion 
Lazily  undulates  all  thro'  the  tall  standing  army  of  rushes. 

O  joy  thus  to  revel  all  day,  till  the  twilight  turns  us  home- 
ward ! 

Till  all  the  lingering  deep-blooming  splendour  of  sunset  is 
over, 

And  the  one  star  shines  mildly  in  mellowing  hues,  like  a  spirit 

Sent  to  assure  us  that  light  never  dieth,  tho'  day  is  now  buried- 

Saying ;  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  few  hours  intervening,  that 
interval 

Tuned  by  the  woodlark  in  heaven,  to-morrow  my  semblance 
far  eastward, 

Heralds  the  day  'tis  my  mission  eternal  to  seal  and  to 
prophecy. 

Come  then  and  homeward ;  passing  down  the  close  path  of 

the  meadows. 
Home  like  the  bees  stored  with  sweetness ;  each  with  a  lark 

in  the  bosom, 
Trilling  for  ever,  and  oh !  will  yon  lark  ever  cease  to  sing  up 

there?" 

Was  the  summer  sumptuousness  of  the  real 
English  fields  and  not  those  of  some  dream- 
island  ''far  from  all  men's  knowing"  ever  so 
expressed  for  us,  and  all  the  delicious  sensuous 
absorption  that  in  such  a  ramble  lengthens  a 
July  day  into  a  summer,  and  drowns  as  in 
wine  the  memory  of  the  town.  What  minute 
pictures  too  ! 

"  There,  by  the  wet-mirror'd  osiers,  the  emerald  wing  of  the 
kingfisher 

109 


"Modern  Love,"  etc. 

Flashes,  the  fish  in  his  beak !  There  the  dab-chick  dived  and 

the  motion 
Lazily  undulates  all  thro'  the  tall  standing  army  of  rushes," — 

or  that  pathetic  vignette  of  the  nightingale 
"  mute  with  the  cares  of  the  nest "  (Hke  how 
many  another  poor  poet)  ;  while  the  whole  poem 
is  suffused  with  that  divine  suggestiveness  without 
which  a  picture  of  nature  is  mere  earth  and 
timber.  Mr.  Meredith's  studies  of  her  in  her 
sibylHne  moods,  and  the  fine  manly  philosophy 
he  has  learnt  from  her,  were  yet  to  come. 

At  this  point  it  will  be  well  to  abandon  the 
chronological  method,  as  too  unwieldy  for  the 
scope  of  such  a  chapter  as  this,  and  in  which 
there  is  always  a  danger  of  not  being  able  to 
see  the  wood  for  the  trees  ;  and  try  to  gain  a 
broad  view  of  Mr.  Meredith's  verse  as  it  at 
present  lies  garnered  in  his  four  more  repre- 
sentative volumes.  The  one  question  with  which 
such  an  inquiry  is  concerned  is  :  What  does  this 
poet  bring  us  that  we  can  find  nowhere  else  ? 
To  which  I  would  make  answer  :  A  new  poetry 
of  nature,  and  Modern  Love. 

Let  us  first  consider  the  latter.      In  the  same 

volume  are  some  genre  pictures   of  country  life, 

the  power  and  charm  of  which  could  not  well  be 

no 


'' Modern   Love,"  etc. 

overstated,  the  quaintness,  the  colour,  the  dramatic 
vividness  of  phrase — 

"  Easy  to  think  that  grieving's  folly 
When  the  hand's  fir^n  as  driven  stakes," 

says  "  JuggHng  Jerry  "  in  a  poem  which  has  won 
nearest  to  popularity  of  any  of  the  verses  of  a  poet 
who  has  never  known  what  it  is  to  be  *'  lapped  in 
the  elysium  of  a  new  edition." 

Ask  most  people  about  Mr.  Meredith's  poetry, 
and  it  is  strange  if  they  do  not  quote  **  JuggHng 
Jerry  "  or  some  other  of  these  "  Poems  of  the 
English  Roadside."  But,  surely,  fine  as  they  are, 
it  is  not  in  them  that  we  find  what  we  can  find 
nowhere  else,  and  to  know  them  and  miss  the 
poem  which  gives  the  title  to  the  volume  were 
almost  as  unpardonable  as  to  know  Tennyson 
only  by  his  **  Northern  Farmer."  Again,  '*  Mar- 
garet's Bridal  Eve "  is  a  beautiful  poem  well 
deserving  the  praise  it  has  won,  and  the  Ballads 
and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life  are  full  of  fine  things, 
such  as  that  livid  picture  of  Attila's  death  chamber, 
with  the  frenzied  wife  who  has  murdered  him, 

•'  Huddled  in  the  corner  dark, 
Humped  and  grinning  like  a  cat "  ; 

but    they    are    for    the    most    part,    nevertheless, 

studies  in  the  conventional   subjects  of  tragedy, 

III 


"Modern   Love/'  etc. 

and  in  the  manner — more  or  less  Meredithised 
certainly — of  other  poets.  They  are  quite  re- 
markable enough  to  give  Mr.  Meredith  a  place 
above  the  crowd  of  modern  singers,  but  not  that 
higher  seat  which,  in  my  judgment,  is  his,  in  right 
of  the  So7igs  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth  and 
Modern  Love. 

Modern  Love  is  Mr.  Meredith's  one  great  poem 
of  tragic  life.  It  is,  moreover,  Mr.  Meredith's 
one  great  achievement  in  poetic  art. 

All  the  other  qualities  of  poetry  are  to  be 
found  on  any  page  of  his  volumes,  but,  with  the 
exception  of  this  and  one  or  two  other  shorter 
pieces,  such  as  "The  Meeting,"  the  quahty 
of  art,  the  architectural  faculty,  is  lacking. 
**  Every  section  of  this  great  progressional  poem," 
said  Mr.  Swinburne,  in  a  noble  vindicatory 
letter  against  the  criticism  of  the  Spectator, 
**  being  connected  with  the  other  by  links  of  the 
finest  and  most  studied  workmanship."  And 
as  art  is,  of  course,  the  one  antidote  against 
"  the  opium  of  time,"  this  is  likely,  despite  the 
notable  nature  poems  yet  to  be  considered,  to 
be  the  one  poem  which  will  carry  to  posterity 
the  name  of  George  Meredith  as  a  writer  of 
verse. 

XZ2 


"Modern   Love/'  etc. 


It  is  a  story  of  the  unhappy  wedlock  of  two 
who  were,  the  poet  tells  us, 

"  rapid  falcons  in  a  snare, 
Condemn'd  to  do  the  flitting  of  the  bat. 
Lovers  beneath  the  singing  sky  of  May 
They  wander'd  once;  " 

but  now  ! — let  the  wonderful  picture  of  the  open- 
ing sonnet  express  their  present  unhappiness. 

"  By  this  he  knew  she  wept  with  waking  eyes : 
That,  at  his  hand's  Hght  quiver  by  her  head. 
The  strange  low  sobs  that  shook  their  common  bed 
Were  called  into  her  with  a  sharp  surprise. 
And  strangled  mute,  like  little  gaping  snakes, 
Dreadfully  venomous  to  him.     She  lay 
Stone-still,  and  the  long  darkness  flow'd  away 
With  muffled  pulses.     Then,  as  midnight  makes 
Her  giant  heart  of  Memory  and  Tears 
Drink  the  pale  drug  of  silence,  and  so  beat 
Sleep's  heavy  measure,  they  from  head  to  feet 
Were  moveless,  looking  through  their  dead  black  years, 
By  vain  regret  scrawl'd  over  the  blank  wall. 
Like  sculptured  effigies  they  might  be  seen 
Upon  their  marriage-tomb,  the  sword  between 
Each  wishing  for  the  sword  that  severs  all." 

So,  day  by  day,  "  each  suck'd  a  secret  and 
each  wore  a  mask,"  she  wooed  by  another,  and 
he  with  hidden  knowledge  of  her  sin. 

But  no  common  natures  are  these  two,  no 
vulgar  misalliance  is  theirs  ;  else  were  there  no 
story  ;  rather  are  they  two  instruments,  each  fine, 
each  capable  of  discoursing  excellent  music  by 

113  H 


"Modern  Love,"  etc. 

itself  or  with  its  natural  complement,  yet  never 

intended  to  be  played  together,  which,  however, 

fate  has  insisted  on  wedding  in  a  duet.      "  It  is 

no    vulgar    nature     I     have    wived,"    says    the 

husband,  and  again 

"The  misery  is  greater,  as  I  live! 
To  know  her  flesh  so  pure,  so  keen  her  sense. 
That  she  does  penance  now  for  no  offence. 
Save  against  Love." 

Therefore,  the  story  is  one  of  Mr.  George 
Meredith's  own  dramas  of  fine  shades  and  sub- 
limated sensitiveness  which  have  their  action  in 
the  mind  and  heart,  rather  than  in  the  daylight 
world  of  labelled  "  act  and  deed";  with  sufferings, 
need  one  say,  none  the  less  piercing,  and  crises 
none  the  less  portentous  for  that. 

"Beneath  the  surface  this,  while  by  the  fire 
They  sat,  she  laughing  at  a  quiet  joke." 

Only  a  very  careful  study  of  the  poem,  line 

by  line,  can,  of  course,  reveal  the  fulness  of  its 

masterly   subtlety — but  even  that   inconsiderate 

person  who  expects  to  run  and  read  at  the  same 

time  could  hardly  miss  gaining  deep  hints  thereof. 

Of  such  fine  fibre  is  the  husband  that  we  find  him 

so  reverent  of  his  wife  and  of  the  claims  of  her 

true  heart's  love  over  his  mere  husband's  "  rights 

by  law  established  "  as  to  be  able  to  say — 

114 


^^  Modern  Love,"  etc. 

"  It  cannot  be  such  harm  on  her  cool  brow 
To  put  a  kiss  ?     Yet  if  I  meet  him  there ! 
But  she  is  mine !     Ah,  no  !     I  know  too  well 
I  claim  a  star  whose  light  is  overcast : 
I  claim  a  phantom-woman  in  the  Past. 
The  hour  has  struck,  though  I  heard  not  the  bell !  " 

For  distraction  he  appeals  to  pleasure  and  to 
philosophy  alike  in  vain,  gnawed  at  by  suspicion 
and  sick  with  yearning  for  those  "splendours, 
mysteries,  dearer  because  known,"  which  ''her 
shoulder  in  the  glass,"  albeit  so  familiar,  inspires, 

"  Yet  it  was  plain  she  struggled,  and  that  salt 
Of  righteous  feeling  made  her  pitiful," — 

and  at  times  it  seemed  that  they  might  be  on  the 

very  threshold  of  the  old   Saturnian   reign  once 

more,  if  either  could   take  that  one  step  nearer, 

which  Pride,  however,  always  interfered  to  prevent. 

The  cause  of  their  estrangement   suggests  a 

bitter  reflection  on  woman. 

"  In  Love's  deep  woods 
I  dreamt  of  loyal  Life : — the  offence  is  there  !  " 

A  woman's  jealousy  will  not  even  brook  the 

rivalry  of  a  dream. 

"  My  crime  is  that,  the  puppet  of  a  dream, 
I  plotted  to  be  worthy  of  the  world. 
Oh,  had  I  with  my  darling  help'd  to  mince 
The  facts  of  life,  you  still  had  seen  me  go 
With  hindward  feather  and  with  forward  toe. 
Her  much-adored  delightful  Fairy  Prince ! " 
115 


(C 


Modern  Love/'  etc. 


And  the  hardest  pain  to  bear  is  not  the  loss  of 

the  future  of  "dim  rich  skies"  so  dear  to  all  men, 

but  that  of  the  past  now  proved  illusion.     If  that 

"Were  firm,  or  might  be  blotted  :  but  the  whole 
Of  life  is  mixed  :  the  mocking  Past  must  stay ; 
And  if  I  drink  oblivion  of  a  day, 
So  shorten  I  the  stature  of  my  soul." 

Yet  how  different  is  Nature's  acceptance  of  the 

•*  over  and  gone  "  ! 

"  '  I  play  for  seasons ;  not  eternities  !  * 
Says  Nature,  laughing  on  her  way.     '  So  must 
All  those  whose  stake  is  nothing  more  than  dust ! ' 
And  lo,  she  wins,  and  of  her  harmonies 
She  is  full  sure  !     Upon  her  dying  rose 
She  drops  a  look  of  fondness  and  goes  by, 
Scarce  any  retrospection  in  her  eye ; 
For  she  the  laws  of  growth  most  deeply  knows, 
Whose  hands  bear,  here  a  seed-bag ;  there  an  urn. 
Pledged  she  herself  to  aught,  'twould  mark  her  end ! 
This  lesson  of  our  only  visible  friend. 
Can  we  not  teach  our  foolish  hearts  to  learn  ? 
Yes  !  yes  ! — but  oh,  our  human  rose  is  fair 
Surpassingly  !     Lose  calmly  Love's  great  bliss, 
When  the  renew'd  forever  of  a  kiss 
Sounds  thro'  the  listless  hurricane  of  hair !  " 

Then  a  fourth  is  added   to  the  drama  by  the 

husband's    looking    for    comfort,    though   "  with 

little  prospect  of  a  cure,"  on  a  woman  to  whom 

through   the  rest  of  the  poem  he  refers   as   his 

"  Lady  "  as  distinguished  from  his  wife — with  the 

consequence  that  the  latter  has  another  "  veering 

ii6 


"Modern   Love,"   etc. 

fit,"  and  illustrates  what  her  husband  was  after- 
wards to  experience, 

"  How  many  a  thing  which  we  cast  to  the  ground, 
When  others  pick  it  up  becomes  a  gem." 

Can  it  be  true  that  "  women  still  may  love 
whom  they  deceive,"  since  she  is  jealous  ?  Then 
comes  this  sonnet,  so  delicately  pictorial,  so 
vividly  dramatic,  and,  like  them  all,  so  masculine 
in  phrase. 

"  I  think  she  sleeps  :  it  must  be  sleep,  when  low 
Hangs  that  abandon'd  arm  towards  the  floor : 
The  hand  turn'd  with  it.     Now  make  fast  the  door. 
Sleep  on  :  it  is  your  husband,  not  your  foe ! 
The  Poet's  black  stage-lion  of  wrong'd  love, 
Frights  not  our  modern  dames: — well,  if  he  did  ! 
Now  will  I  pour  new  light  upon  that  lid, 
Full-sloping  like  the  breasts  beneath,     '  Sweet  dove, 
'  Your  sleep  is  pure.     Nay,  pardon  ;  I  disturb. 
'  I  do  not  ?  well ! '     Her  waking  infant  stare 
Grows  woman  to  the  burden  my  hands  bear : 
Her  own  handwriting  to  me  when  no  curb 
Was  left  on  Passion's  tongue.     She  trembles  thro' ; 
A  woman's  tremble — the  whole  instrument ; — 
I  show  another  letter  lately  sent. 
The  words  are  very  like :  the  name  is  new." 

Ah  me !  for  the  old  nights  when  by  the 
*'  clicking  coal  "  they  used  to  sit,  and  he  talk  senti- 
mentality about  the  ceciditflos  of  Love — yet  never 
thought  it  then.  To  the  world,  however,  they  are 
the  happiest  of  couples.      "  They  see  no  ghost." 

"7 


"Modern   Love/'  etc. 

*'  Hiding  the  skeleton  "  is  the  game,  and  it  is  so 

well  played  that  they  '*  waken  envy  of  their  happy 

lot."       "  Fast,    sweet,    and    golden    shows     our 

marriage-knot."      O  !  to  be  Hke  Jack  and   Tom 

and  Moll  and  Meg  on  that  country  green  I    They 

are  happy  enough,  God  keep  them  so — yet  what 

is  their  happiness  ? — O  cynic  ! — "  'tis   true  that 

when  we  trace  its  source,  'tis  beer."    The  finding 

of  "  a  wanton-scented  tress  "  reminds  him  of  an 

old  amour — for  he  was  never 

"  of  those  miserable  males 
Who  sniff  at  vice,  and,  daring  not  to  snap, 
Do  therefore  hope  for  Heaven  " — 

and  the  discovery  makes  him  ask  himself 

"  If  for  that  time  I  must  ask  charity, 
Have  I  not  any  charity  to  give?  " 

The  bitterest  cup  of  unconscious  mockery  is 
held  to  their  lips  one  evening  by  a  young  friend 
about  to  be  married,  who,  full  of  talk  of  his 
"  most  wondrous  she,"  demands  their  blessing, 
^'  convinced  that  words  of  wedded  lovers  must 
bring  good." 

"  We  question  :  if  we  dare !  or  if  we  should ! 
And  pat  him,  with  light  laugh.     We  have  not  winced. 
Next,  she  has  fallen.     Fainting  points  the  sign 
To  happy  things  in  wedlock.     When  she  wakes 
She  looks  the  star  that  thro'  the  cedar  shakes : 
Her  lost  moist  hand  clings  mortally  to  mine." 

iiS 


"Modern   Love/'  etc. 

Then  it  is  evident  that  she  is  struggHng  to 
speak  out  her  secret  to  him — she  has  nervous  fits 
and  falls  into  tears  when  he  is  by,  but 

"  She  will  not  speak.     I  will  not  ask.     We  are 
League-sunder'd  by  the  silent  gulf  between." 

*•  'Tis  Christmas  weather,  and  a  country  house 
Receives  us  :  rooms  are  full :  we  can  but  get 
An  attic-crib.     Such  lovers  will  not  fret 
At  that,  it  is  half-said.     The  great  carouse 
Knocks  hard  upon  the  midnight's  hollow  door. 
But  when  I  knock  at  hers,  I  see  the  pit. 
Why  did  I  come  here  in  that  dullard  fit  ? 
I  enter,  and  lie  couch'd  upon  the  floor. 
Passing,  I  caught  the  coverlid's  quick  beat : — 
Come,  Shame,  burn  to  my  soul !  and  Pride,  and  Pain  — 
Foul  demons  that  have  tortured  me,  sustain ! 
Out  in  the  freezing  darkness  the  lambs  bleat. 
The  small  bird  stiffens  in  the  low  starlight. 
I  know  not  how,  but,  shuddering  as  I  slept, 
I  dream'd  a  banished  Angel  to  me  crept : 
My  feet  were  nourish'd  on  her  breasts  all  night." 

Yet  why  will  she  not  speak  ? 

"  Oh  !     I  do  but  wait  a  sign ! 
Pluck  out  the  eyes  of  Pride !  thy  mouth  to  mine ! 
Never  !  though  I  die  thirsting.     Go  thy  ways  !  " 

He  is  worried  and  unstrung.  '*  Distraction  is 
the  panacea,"  says  the  doctor — so  let  it  be,  any- 
thing the  devil  may  offer,  for  "he  seemed  kind 
when  not  a  soul  would  comfort." — Ah!  my  Lady  ! 

"  Lady,  I  am  content 
To  play  with  you  the  game  of  Sentiment, 
And  with  you  enter  on  paths  perilous :  " 
119 


"Modern  Love,"  etc. 

but  if  he  indeed  does  give  himself  to  her,  his 
slighted  egoism  speaks,  she  must  be  utterly  his. 

"  I  feel  the  promptings  of  Satanic  power, 
While  you  do  homage  unto  me  alone." 

Yet  how  is  it  that  this  new  love  has  little  of 
the  wonder  and  brings  none  of  the  peace  of  the 
old? 

"  Am  I  failing  ?  for  no  longer  can  I  cast 
A  glory  round  about  this  head  of  gold. 
Glory  she  wears,  but  springing  from  the  mould : 
Not  like  the  consecration  of  the  Past ! 
Is  my  soul  beggar'd  ?     Something  more  than  earth 
I  cry  for  still :  I  cannot  be  at  peace 
In  having  Love  upon  a  mortal  lease. 
I  cannot  take  the  woman  at  her  worth  ! 
Where  is  the  ancient  wealth  wherewith  I  clothed 
Our  human  nakedness,  and  could  endow 
With  spiritual  splendour  a  white  brow 
That  else  had  grinn'd  at  me  the  fact  I  loath'd  ? 
A  kiss  is  but  a  kiss  now  !  and  no  wave 
Of  a  great  flood  that  whirls  me  to  the  sea. 
But  as  you  will !  we'll  sit  contentedly, 
And  eat  our  pot  of  honey  on  the  grave." 

Only  one  man  before  Mr.  Meredith  has  written 
lines  of  such  pathos  as  the  sixth  and  seventh 
here,  or  of  such  shuddering  grimness  as  the  last 
two — what  a  picture  of  "middle-aged  sensuality" 
is  there  !  It  is  as  fearful  as  Holbein.  Yet  there 
is  a  line  in  the  next  sonnet  even  more  fearful. 
In  that  chill  mood  of  disillusion  which  he  has 

120 


"Modern   Love,"   etc. 

now  reached,  sitting  with  the  kisses  of  his 
mistress  dust  and  ashes  on  his  lips,  he  philo- 
sophises on  the  evolution  of  Love. 

"  First,  animals ;  and  next. 
Intelligences  at  a  leap ;  on  whom 
Pale  lies  the  distant  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
And  all  that  draweth  on  the  tomb  for  text." 

With  brain  has  come  the  sense  of  death  ;  for 

the  first  time  it  is  a  factor  in  our  schemes,  schemes 

shrunken   by  its  admission  from  eternity  to  an 

hour.      But  "  into  this  state  comes  Love,"  and  in 

the   intense  wonderful   life    he   brings,  death    is 

forgotten,  nay  !  is  "  impossible  " — the  light  is  so 

strong,  darkness  must  be  a  myth. 

"  the  shadow  loses  form. 
We  are  the  lords  of  life,  and  life  is  warm. 
Intelligence  and  instinct  now  are  one." 

But  love  takes  flight  and  then  we  see  how  that 
extravagant  faith  was  but  a  **  rose  in  the  blood," 
a  flattery  of  passion — "  And  we  stand  waken'd, 
shivering  from  our  dream."  Happy  then  is  he 
who  can  learn  from  nature — she  who,  in  an  earlier 
sonnet  we  were  told,  plays  "  for  seasons  not 
eternities  " — to  "  live  but  with  the  day  "  and  plod 
and  plod  untroubled  by  to-morrow.  Lady,  then 
sneers  the  sonneteer,  this  is  the  best  I  can  say 
for  love,  this  philosophy  of  the   charnel ;  we  are 

I2Z 


^'Modern  Love,"   etc. 

too  wearily  wise  for  sentimental  lollipops  ;  it  is 
no  use  craving  a  sonnet  to  your  shoe-tie,  we  are 
long  past  that,  at  least  I  am,  and  this  grim  stuff 
is  my  modern  apology  for  gallantry.  ^^  Lady,  this 
is  my  sonnet  to  your  eyes."  This  is  a  downright 
wicked  line.  It  was  so  Mephistopheles  laughed 
beneath  Marguerite's  window.  Only  the  lost  so 
cruelly  sneer. 

Then  a  more  peaceful  mood  awhile  prevails  ; 
he  looks  at  his  mistress  with  less  jaundiced  eyes  ; 
if  the  heart  cannot  endow  her  with  that  "  ancient 
wealth  of  spiritual  splendour,"  there  is  much  in 
her  to  stimulate  the  mind. 

"  This  golden  head  has  wit  in  it.     I  live 
Again,  and  a  far  higher  life,  near  her." 

Moreover,  she  has  "  that  rare  gift  to  beauty. 
Common  Sense." 

And  she  is  very  beautiful,  too.  That  bloom 
he  was  just  despairing  of  is  indeed  on  her  face, 
and  she  has  that  ardour  of  nature  which  can 
walk  with  him  from  fire  to  fire  and  slake  that 
passionate  thirst,  with  which  so  long  he  has  been 
*'  languishing  in  drouth  ;  "  though,  with  all,  she 
cannot  win  him  complete  oblivion  of  that  sorrow 
through  which  he  sought  her. 


122 


"Modern   Love,"   etc. 

'*  One  restless  corner  of  my  heart,  or  head, 
That  holds  a  dying  something  never  dead, 
Still  frets,  though  Nature  giveth  all  she  can. 
It  means,  that  woman  is  not,  I  opine, 
Her  sex's  antidote.     Who  seeks  the  asp 
For  serpents'  bites?     'Twould  calm  me  could  I  clasp 
Shrieking  Bacchantes  with  their  souls  of  wine  !  " 

The  next  sonnet  reveals  that  this  last  act  has 
been  played  with  a  continental  health  resort  for 
its  stage,  whereon  now  enters  "  Madam." 

Husband  and  wife  exchange  the  usual  courtesy 
inquiries  and  off-hand  answers,  through  which, 
however,  on  the  part  of  the  wife,  come  cries  from 
the  smothered  suffering  underneath.  Of  these 
he  coldly  affects  to  take  no  heed,  but  still  he 
cannot  but  be  moved  by  the  refined  sensitiveness 
of  his  wife's  nature,  which  makes  no  vulgar  show 
of  pain  and  allows  itself  no  vulgar  solace — 
though,  surel}^,  there  is  danger  in  such  pent 
feeling,  for  herself,  if  not  for  him. 

"  She  is  not  one 
Long  to  endure  this  torpidly,  and  shun 
The  drugs  that  crowd  about  a  woman's  hand." 

At  last  comes  a  meeting  between  his  wife  and 

his  mistress,  and  the  nuances  of  womanly  finesse 

in  their   attitude    to    each    other  fill    him    with 

cynical  wonderment.      From  the  next  sonnet  but 

one  we  gather  that  his  mistress  has  been  feeling 

123 


"Modern   Love,"  etc. 

pity  for  his  wife  and  urging  him  to  cleave  to  her 
and  let  their  liaison  come  to  an  end.  But  no  ! 
he  says,  to  cleave  to  her  would  be  sacrilege — 
vileness.      It  is  either  you  or  that. 

"  Give  to  imagination  some  pure  light 
In  human  form  to  fix  it,  or  you  shame 
The  devils  with  that  hideous  human  game : — 
Imagination  urging  appetite  !  .  .  . 
Imagination  is  the  charioteer 
That,  in  default  of  better,  drives  the  hogs. 
So,  therefore,  my  dear  Lady,  let  me  love ! " 

To  this — 

"  She  yields :  my  Lady  in  her  noblest  mood 
Has  yielded :  " 

and  there  comes  a  golden   hour   of  "  music  and 

moonlight/'  wherein  the  cup  of  his  dreams  seems 

to   run   over,  and    his    "  bride  of  every  sense " 

seems  found  at  last.      But  on  his  way  homeward, 

lo  !  his  wife  and  her  lover  !  and  at  once  his  heart, 

that  just   now  had    been    so    full    of    music,   is 

writhing  with  a  jealousy  that  would  have  seemed 

impossible  yesterday. 

"  Can  I  love  one, 
And  yet  be  jealous  of  another  ?  " 

O  !  what  shall  he  do  ?      Can  he  achieve  peace 

**by  turning  to  this  fountain-source  of  woe,"  and 

seeking  the  old  love  at  the  old  shriae — but  there 

is  no  guidance  anywhere,  and 

124 


"Modern   Love/'  etc. 

"  The  dread  that  my  old  love  may  be  alive, 
Has  seiz'd  my  nursling  new  love  by  the  throat." 

Next  we  read — 

"  We  two  have  taken  up  a  lifeless  vow 
To  rob  a  living  passion :  dust  for  fire  !  " 

and  that  vileness   he   so  feared  has  come  upon 
them, 

"  If  I  the  death  of  Love  had  deeply  plann'd, 
I  never  could  have  made  it  half  so  sure. 
As  by  the  unbless'd  kisses  which  upbraid 
The  full-waked  sense;  or,  failing  that,  degrade!" 

Yes,  love  is  surely  dead  in  him,  for  pity  has 
come  to  take  its  place — a  certain  sign.  She 
knows,  too ;  it  makes  her  rave  with  pain,  and 
so  the  days  go  by.  One  day  they  are  in  the 
fields — in  "  the  season  of  the  sweet  wild-rose  " — 
*'  my  Lady's  emblem  in  the  heart  of  me."  He 
plucks  one  and  dreams  over  it.  Madam  comes 
along  and  demands  it  of  him.  He  drops  it,  and 
as  they  walk  on,  he  feels  her  stop  and  "  crush  it 
under  heel  with  trembling  limbs." 

"  These,"   mocks  the  sad    heart,   "  these    are 

the  summer  days,  and  these  our  walks."     At  last 

an  accident  breaks  the  unnatural  silence  between 

them.      He  finds  her  one  morning  in  a  wood  with 

her  lover. 

125 


cc 


Modern   Love,"  etc. 


"  I  moved 
Towards  her,  and  made  proffer  of  my  arm. 
She  took  it  simply,  with  no  rude  alarm ; 
And  that  disturbing  shadow  pass'd  reproved 
I  felt  the  pain'd  speech  coming,  and  declared 
My  firm  belief  in  her,  ere  she  could  speak. 
A  ghastly  morning  came  into  her  cheek, 
While  with  a  widening  soul  on  me  she  stared." 

The  next  great  sonnet,  in  spite  of  the  multi- 
tude of  foregoing  quotations,  must  be  quoted 
entire — the  sonnet  of  which  Mr.  Swinburne  has 
said  that  *'  a  more  perfect  piece  of  writing  no 
man  alive  has  ever  turned  out."  Witness  lines 
five  to  eight : 

"  We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  sky, 
And  in  the  osier-isle  we  heard  their  noise. 
We  had  not  to  look  back  on  summer  joys, 
Or  forward  to  a  summer  of  bright  dye. 
But  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth 
Our  spirits  grew  as  we  went  side  by  side. 
The  hour  became  her  husband,  and  my  bride. 
Love  that  had  robb'd  us  so,  thus  bless'd  our  dearth! 
The  pilgrims  of  the  year  wax'd  very  loud 
In  multitudinous  chatterings,  as  the  flood 
Full  brown  came  from  the  west,  and  like  pale  blood 
Expanded  to  the  upper  crimson  cloud. 
Love  that  had  robb'd  us  of  immortal  things, 
This  little  moment  mercifully  gave. 
And  still  I  see  across  the  twilight  wave, 
The  swan  sail  with  her  young  beneath  her  wings." 

Then  at   last  they   *'  drank  the  pure  daylight 

of  honest  speech,"  but,  alas  I  for  the  nature  of 

126 


"Modern  Love,"   etc. 

woman,  in  which  sense  and  senses  are  so  inter- 
mixed, and  for  which  there  is  no  help  but  "  more 
brain,  O  Lord,  more  brain,"  she  conceives  the 
ideal  devotion  of  parting  from  him,  so  that  he 
may  go  and  be  happy  with  his  heart's  lady.  So, 
without  a  word,  she  was  gone.  ''  He  found  her 
by  the  ocean's  moaning  verge,"  his  old  love 
seemed  in  his  face,  she  took  his  hand  and  went 
back  with  him,  and  somehow  "  seem'd  the  wife 
he  sought,  tho'  shadow-like  and  dry."      But  that 

night — 

"her  call 
Was  heard,  and  he  came  wondering  to  the  bed. 
'  Now  kiss  me,  dear !  it  may  be,  now  ! '  she  said. 
Lethe  had  pass'd  those  lips,  and  he  knew  all." 
"  Thus  piteously  Love  closed  what  he  begat : 
The  union  of  this  ever-diverse  pair  ! 
These  two  were  rapid  falcons  in  a  snare, 
Condemn'd  to  do  the  flitting  of  the  bat. 
Lovers  beneath  the  singing  sky  of  May, 
They  wander'd  once  ;  clear  as  the  dew  on  flowers : 
But  they  fed  not  on  the  advancing  hours : 
Their  hearts  held  cravings  for  the  buried  day. 
Then  each  applied  to  each  that  fatal  knife. 
Deep  questioning,  which  probes  to  endless  dole. 
Ah,  what  a  dusty  answer  gets  the  soul 
When  hot  for  certainties  in  this  our  life! — 
In  tragic  hints  here  see  what  evermore 
Moves  dark  as  yonder  midnight  ocean's  force, 
Thundering  like  ramping  hosts  of  warrior  horse, 
To  throw  that  faint  thin  line  upon  the  shore! " 

Any  one  who  loves  these  fifty  poems — fifty 

127 


"Modern   Love,"  etc. 

poems,  and  yet  one  poem — must  often  have 
wondered  why,  among  all  the  glib  chatter  which 
the  last  year  or  two  has  given  us  about  the  sonnet, 
he  has  heard  so  little  of  Modern  Love.  How  is  it 
that  with  all  the  solemn  discussion,  as  with  bowed 
heads  and  bated  breath,  of  '*  the  great  sonnet- 
sequences,"  Modern  Love  has  found  no  place 
among  them?  "Why,  because,"  exclaims  some 
young  Miss  of  ten,  who  practises  sonnet-writing 
in  the  nursery,  as  a  kind  of  bouts  rimes,  **  don't  you 
know  that  Mr.  Meredith's  Modern  Love  is  not 
written  in  sonnets  ?  A  sonnet  cannot  have  more 
than  fourteen  lines,  and  there  are,  let  me  see,  how 
many  kinds,  Petrarcan,  Shakespearean  and — 
and — ,"  so  on.  One  can  hardly  be  supposed  to  be 
in  need  of  such  information  at  this  hour,  and  cer- 
tainly one  may  be  excused  for  thinking  that  Mr. 
Swinburne  knows  something  about  metrical  law. 
And  yet  he  employs  the  term  sonnet  to  the  poem 
I  have  just  quoted.  The  young  Miss  may  not  re- 
member that  there  was  a  moment  in  the  history  of 
the  sonnet  when  sonneteers  hung  indecisive  be- 
tween a  form  in  sixteen  and  that  in  fourteen  lines. 
Of  course,  the  choice  finally  fell  upon  the  fourteen- 
Hned  form,  wisely,  all  will  agree,  but  do  not  the 

sixteen-line  poems  in  Modern  Love  so  completely 

128 


^'Modern  Love,"  etc. 

fulfil  all  the  essential  conditions  of  the  sonnet  as 
now  traditionally  formulated,  that  we  may  well 
extend  to  them  the  benefit  of  that  *'  historic 
doubt,"  and  accept  them  as  that  exception  which 
proves  the  rule  ?  Certainly  they  achieve  that 
microcosmic  completeness  which  is  the  aim, 
of  course,  of  every  poem,  but  which  one  looks  for 
more  especially  in  the  sonnet.  That  they  are 
in  the  main  dramatic — whereas  the  sonnet  has 
generally  been  employed  as  a  lyric  form — matters 
not.  *^  The  moment  eternal,"  however  presented, 
is  not  that  the  one  theme  of  the  sonnet  ? 

An  isolated  dramatic  act — in  the  mind  or  in 
the  daylight — a  crisis,  a  tableau,  come  equally 
within  its  scope,  and  Modern  Love  is  made  up  of 
such  tableaux  in  sonnets,  each  of  which,  so 
victorious  is  the  art,  is  a  complete  poem,  capable 
of  sustaining  a  separate  artistic  existence,  and 
yet  again,  by  virtue  of  "links  of  the  finest  and 
most  studied  workmanship,"  part  of  a  still  greater 
whole. 

There  is  a  small  and  a  great  way  of  writing 
sonnets;  there  is  the  modern  way  of  "the  little 
masters,"  and  there  is  that  of  the  great  poets. 
The  parallels  between  Art  and  Religion  are 
eternally   suggestive.      Just   now  they   are  each 

129  I 


(C 


Modern   Love,"  etc. 


suffering  from  a  very  similar  trouble — the  decay 
of  form.  Each  is  doing  its  best  to  make-believe 
by  the  aid  of  strange  gums  and  spices  of 
embalmment  ;  yet  how  vainly  !  It  is  but  the 
delicate  husk,  the  fair  shell  painted  and  fretted 
by  a  life  that  has  for  ever  left  it,  and  which  is 
already  stretching  hands  to  the  light  in  the 
infancy  of  new  forms.  Form  in  Art  has  become 
a  pedantry  with  us  once  more  ;  we  talk  of  it  as 
a  fixed  quantity,  and  so  for  most  of  us  it  is  a 
dead  thing. 

The  recent  pother  about  the  sonnet  to  which 
I  have  alluded  is  an  example  of  this.  Rossetti 
really  said  the  one  vital  thing  about  it — "  A 
Shakespearean  sonnet  is  better  than  the  most 
perfect     in     form     because    Shakespeare    wrote 


it." 


"  Fundamental  brainwork,"  that  other  phrase  of 

his,  is  everything.     Strange  is  it  to  reflect  that  the 

very  men  whose  sonnets  we  alone  care  about  have 

written  their  best  in  irregular  forms;  Shakespeare, 

Milton,   Keats,  Wordsworth,   Rossetti,   and  Mrs. 

Browning.      Wordsworth  sings  the  praise  of  the 

sonnet  in   one  of  most   mongrel    form.      Seeing 

that  laws  are  certainly  not   made   for  the   artist, 

one  cannot  help  wondering  for  whose  benefit  they 

130 


"Modern   Love/'  etc. 

are  so  elaborately  written  down  !  "  It  takes  a 
soul  to  make  a  body,"  Mrs.  Browning  said — so 
does  it  take  a  spirit  to  make  a  form.  If  a  man 
has  nothing  to  say,  let  him  be  silent.  Why 
should  he  so  invariably  choose  the  sonnet  in 
which  to  say  it  ? 

After  all,  is  it  not  true  that  if  a  sonnet  is  a 
poem,  we  don't  care  about  its  being  a  sonnet, 
and  if  it  is  not  a  poem,  we  don't  care  about  it  at 
all,  be  it  never  so  well-bred  a  Petrarcan  ? 

And  now  to  return  again,  after  too  long  a 
digression,  to  Modern  Love.  It  is  usual  to  class 
together  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  Rossetti's  House 
of  Life y  and  Mrs.  Browning's  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese^  as  the  three  great  sonnet-sequences. 
This  appears  to  me  really  more  or  less  arbitrary 
in  regard  to  Shakespeare,  for  the  general  kinship 
of  form  is  little  in  relation  to  the  radical  diversity 
in  inspiration.  Rossetti's  sonnets  are  chiefly  the 
product  of  highly  wrought  fancy — he  seems  to 
have  kept  his  imagination,  in  the  main,  of  course, 
for  his  other  poems — and  if  Shakespeare's  sonnets 
have  one  quahty  more  than  another,  it  is  that 
space  and  might  of  imagination  for  which  we 
have  no  other  name  than  the  master's  own.  Mrs. 
Browning's  are  really  much  more  truly  related  to 

131 


"  Modern   Love/'  etc. 

Shakespeare's,  for  they  are  spontaneously  lyrical 
in  their  inspiration,  and  imaginative  in  their 
expression  ;  yet  they  are  so  related  but  as  the 
hawk  is  related  to  the  eagle.  Such  comparisons 
are  indeed  of  little  or  no  value ;  I  have  depre- 
cated the  making  of  them  elsewhere  ;  yet,  as  they 
have  been  instituted,  I  shall  venture  for  once  to 
break  my  own  precept  and  suggest  that  Modern 
Love  is  the  one  poem  of  closest  kin  to  Shake- 
speare's sonnets.  The  kinship  is  hardly  in  the 
form,  which  is,  without  exception,  composed  of 
four  Petrarcan  quatrains,  each  independent  in 
respect  of  rhymes ;  nor  is  it  merely  in  the 
**  Shakespearean  ring  "  of  the  verse.  That  is  a 
trick  soon  learnt,  and  may  mean  something  or 
nothing.  It  is  simply  in  '*  the  fundamental  brain- 
work,"  which  one  feels  alive  through  every  line 
and  word  of  the  poem,  the  spaciousness  and 
strength  of  the  imagination  revealed  to  us  by  that 
greatness  of  metaphor,  and  that  compression  of 
phrase,  which  mark  all  great  literary  art,  and  of 
which  I  have  before  spoken  in  considering  Mr. 
Meredith's  prose.  Though  I  can  onl}^  hope  by  my 
synopsis  to  have  given  a  faint  idea  of  the  poem 
as  a  whole,   yet   of  this  quality  of   imaginative 

phrase  my  numerous  quotations  furnish  abundant 

132 


'^  Modern  Love,"   etc. 

examples.  The  last  quatrain  of  the  poem  alone, 
if  nought  else  were  left,  should  witness  a  master. 
Whether  or  not  the  kinship  to  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  seems  a  real  one  to  others,  or  whether  it 
is  but  an  eccentricity  of  my  own  judgment,  is  of 
little  moment :  it  is  only  important  that  Modern 
Love  should  be  recognised  as  a  great  poem  of 
"  tragic  life." 

One  would  need  no  knowledge  of  his  1 85 1 
poem_s  to  expect  much  from  Mr.  Meredith's  later 
volumes  of  nature-poetry,  to  which  it  is  full  time 
to  turn.  The  wonderful  natural  descriptions 
scattered  broadcast  over  his  novels  are  sufficient 
earnest  of  a  power  in  the  quality  of  which  he  is 
especially  alone.  For  his  nature-poetry  is  indeed 
quite  different  from  any  other  before  known  in 
English  literature.  And  the  difference  lies  in 
the  fact  that,  while  most  other  poets  have  sung 
of  Nature  in  the  abstract,  have  moralised,  senti- 
mentalised, transcendentalised  her,  Mr.  Meredith 
has  cared  more  to  sing  her  as  she  is  in  the 
concrete.  His  predecessors  have,  in  the  main, 
sung  the  spirit  of  nature ;  he  sings  her  body, 
which  is  the  earth,  as  well — '*  this  Earth  of  the 
beautiful  breasts." 

Nature  with   a  big   "  N,"  and   nature  with    a 

133 


"  Modern   Love,"   etc, 

little  '*n,"  express,  I  think,  the  two  attitudes. 
It  would  seem  to  be  an  assumption  from  of  old 
that  a  man  may  hope  to  interpret  the  one,  though 
knowing  httle,  and  knowing  that  little  wrongly, 
of  the  other. 

It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  liberties  included  in 
that  ''  poetic  license  "  which  no  poet  ever  thinks 
of  taking  out.  And,  of  course,  it  is  true  that  Art 
(to  quote  the  beautiful  words  of  Mr.  Oscar  Wilde), 
**  has  flowers  that  no  botanist  knows  of,  birds  that 
no  museum  possesses,"  that  **  she  can  bid  the 
almond  tree  blossom  in  winter,  and  send  the  snow 
upon  the  ripe  cornfield,"  yet,  somehow,  one  has 
a  feeling  that  the  art  which  is  best  for  us,  and 
what  we  call  the  greatest,  stands  not  in  need  of 
these  miracles  ;  her  birds  sing  every  morning  in 
every  glittering  wood,  her  almond  tree  "  bringeth 
forth  his  fruit  in  his  season."  At  least  it  is  so 
with  Mr.  Meredith.  He  sings  of  nature,  not 
because  he  worships  her  in  some  vague  way  afar 
off,  as  one  might  the  abstract  Woman,  but  because 
he  has  loved  and  worshipped  her  as  a  man 
his  wife,  lying  in  her  arms,  eye  to  eye,  breath  to 
breath.  He  has  lived  with  her  day  by  day  for 
many  years,  he  knows  all  her  moods,  moods  of 
summer  and  winter,   of  joy  and   travail,  strange 

134 


^'  Modern   Love/'   etc. 

moods  of  contradiction  hard  to  bear,  and  yet 
alike  in  one  as  in  another  he  has  never  lost  his 
faith  that  her  heart  is  love — "  love,  the  great 
volcano." 

In  his  knowledge  of  all  the  "  secret  things  "  of 
the  vi^oods  and  fields,  all  that  too  many  of  us  but 
know  by  a  rustle  in  the  hedge  as  we  come  by, 
by  a  whirring  or  a  scratching  that  stops  with 
a  strange  precision  ere  we  can  approach  within 
a  yard  of  it  (as  though  it  were  an  elfin  loom 
or  a  secret  still),  and  remains  dumb  with  un- 
shaken determination  while  we  stand  and  listen 
in  vain,  with  a  queer  sense  of  a  life  looking  up 
at  us  and  holding  its  breath  somewhere  near, 
though  all  unseen  ;  in  his  knowledge  of  nature's 
*'  fairie,"  her  troll-folk  and  her  diablerie,  Mr. 
Meredith  can  be  compared  with  none  save  his 
own  Melampus. 

"  With  love  exceeding  a  simple  love  of  the  things 

That  glide  in  grasses  and  rubble  of  woody  wreck ; 
Or  change  their  perch  on  a  beat  of  quivering  wings 

From  branch  to  branch,  only  restful  to  pipe  and  peck ; 
Or,  bristled,  curl  at  a  touch  their  snouts  in  a  ball; 

Or  cast  their  web  between  bramble  and  thorny  hook ; 
The  good  physician,  Melampus,  loving  them  all, 

Among  them  walked,  as  a  scholar  who  reads  a  book." 

One  is  impressed  by  this  intimate  knowledge 

135 


''  Modern   Love,"  etc. 

not  only,  or  indeed  chiefly,  in  the  individual  life 
brought  under  our  notice,  but  rather  in  the  same 
way  that  nature  herself  impresses  us  with  the 
sense  of  her  secret  industries. 

When  Mr.  Meredith  has  to  detail  or  describe 
he  is,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  as  accurate  as  a 
naturalist,  but  as  a  rule  one  feels  that  he  knows 
immeasurably  more  than  he  tells — an  impression 
directly  the  reverse  of  that  we  receive  from  most 
nature  poetry.  There  is  a  background  as  of  the 
wood's  own  shade  to  all  his  pictures.  So  is 
it  in  those  "enchanted  woods"  of  Westermain. 
The  impression  of  the  poem  is  just  that  of  the 
woods  themselves.  The  hum  by  day,  as  of 
unseen  myriads  at  their  work,  talking  and 
singing  to  themselves  somewhere  in  the  under- 
wood, comes  upon  us  as  one  reads  the  poem 
just  as  it  does  on  the  ear  in  nature ;  the 
echoing  pregnant  silence  by  night,  on  which 
now  and  again  a  queer  chuckle  or  an  eerie  cry 
breaks  like  a  mysterious  bubble  from  the  deeps 
of  some  dark  water.  These  have  never  been 
expressed  before  as  they  are  in  Mr.  Meredith's 
poem,  the  very  obscurities  of  which  (and  here 
and  there  it  must  be  confessed  it  is  impenetrable) 
seem  somehow  to   help  the  effect,  in  some  way, 

136 


"  Modern   Love/'   etc, 

perhaps,  suggesting  dark  "  bogie-holes,"  or  rich 
bramble  glooms. 

That  brooding  horror  of  night  there  is  espe- 
cially impressive,  and  the  sense  of  life  in  its 
"  dragonhood "  working  out  its  evolutionary 
salvation  in  those  dark  coverts  is  realised  with 
a  vividness  that  makes  the  flesh  creep. 

"Enter  these  enchanted  woods 

You  who  dare. 
Nothing  harms  beneath  the  leaves 
More  than  waves  a  swimmer  cleaves. 
Toss  your  heart  up  with  the  lark, 
Foot  at  peace  with  mouse  and  worm, 

Fair  you  fare. 
Only  at  a  dread  of  dark 
Quaver,  and  they  quit  their  form: 
Thousand  eyeballs  under  hoods 

Have  you  by  the  hair. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods 

You  who  dare. 

Here  the  snake  across  your  path 
Stretches  in  his  golden  bath : 
Mossy-footed  squirrels  leap 
Soft  as  winnowing  plumes  of  sleep : 
Yaffles  on  a  chuckle  skim 
Low  to  laugh  from  branches  dim 
Up  the  pine,  where  sits  the  star, 
Rattles  deep  the  moth-winged  jar. 
Each  has  business  of  his  own ; 
But  should  you  distrust  a  tone. 

Then  beware. 
Shudder  all  the  haunted  roods. 
All  the  eyeballs  under  hoods 
137 


'^  Modern   Love,"   etc. 

Shroud  you  in  their  glare. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods 
You  who  dare." 

Here  at  once  in  this  first  poem  do  we  learn 
Mr.  Meredith's  one  great  nature  lesson,  his 
attitude  towards  her,  the  simple  attitude  of  utter 
trust,  complete  faith.  Only  by  such  an  approach, 
he  again  and  again  impresses  us,  can  we  hope  to 
know  anything  of  her  heart.  In  any  other,  she 
will  be  a  riddle — a  horror. 

"  You  must  love  the  light  so  well 
That  no  darkness  will  seem  fell, 
Love  it  so  you  could  accost 
Fellowly  a  livid  ghost." 

So  going  to  her,  you  shall  in  time  come  to 
read  much  that  was  dark  and  mysterious  with 
cleansed  eyes,  you  shall  gain  glimpses  of  her 
secret  processes,  and  become  initiated  into  her 
secret  lore.      You  shall  come  to  see  how 

"  Change  is  on  the  wing  to  bud 
Rose  in  brain  from  rose  in  blood," 

and  how 

"  Of  him  who  was  all  maw  " 

she  will  by  her  fiery  alchemy  of  pain  make 

"  Such  a  servant  as  none  saw 
Through  his  days  of  dragonhood." 

So  watching  we  shall  come  to  have  glimpses 

138 


"  Modern   Love,"   etc. 

of  our  own  evolution   up  to  spirit — "  blood   and 

brain  and  spirit  " — how 

"  From  flesh  unto  spirit  man  grows 
Even  here  on  the  sod  under  sun," 

if  we  have  the  patience  of  faith  in  nature,  content 

not  to  understand  all  her  ways, 

•'  Leaving  her  the  future  task, 
Loving  her  too  well  to  a^k." 

Mr.  Meredith's  faith  would    seem   to   be,  what 

indeed  all  faith  is,  the  reliance  of  instinct.      It  is 

like    the   faith    of  Browning's    Lippo    Lippi,    for 

whom    life    meant    intensely    and    meant    good, 

though   he,    no  more  than  any   other  man,   had 

found  what  that  meaning  was,  but   made  it  meat 

and  drink   to   seek  it    out.      So,    if  I    read    Mr. 

Meredith   aright,   he  wants   no   other   assurance 

that  "  the  soul  of  things  is  sweet "  than  such  a 

ramble  in  the  fields  as  that   of  his  185 1   poems. 

After  all   that  bloom  and  colour,  all   that  golden 

bounty   of  clustering  life,    what    solemn    fooling 

does  our  pessimism  seem  !    Like  the  Shakespeare 

of  his  own  sonnet — 

"  How  smiles  he  at  a  generation  ranked 
In  gloomy  noddings  over  Ufa !  " 

But  it  is  not  by  our  blood   that  Mr.    Meredith 
bids    us    read    nature.       On    the    contrary,    he 

139 


"  Modern  Love/'  etc. 

specially  cautions  us  against  doing  so.       It  was 

reliable     maybe    in     June,     but     hardly    so    in 

November.      Brain  alone  is  safe  then.      ''  Never 

is  Earth  misread  by  brain."    "  Master  the  blood," 

says  he  in  autumn, 

"Nor  read  by  chills, 
Earth  admonishes :  Hast  thou  ploughed, 
Sown,  reaped,  harvested  grain  for  the  mills, 
Thou  hast  the  light  over  shadow  of  cloud." 

For  this  reason  A  Reading  of  Earth  is  even 
more  helpful  to  us  than  the  Songs  and  Lyrics, 
for  it  is  comparatively  easy  to  have  faith  in  the 
summer,  the  time  of  the  obvious  "joy  of  earth  "  ; 
it  is  harder  when  the  autumn 

"  Narrows  the  world  to  my  neighbour's  gate, 
Paints  me  life  as  a  wheezy  crone." 

But  are  we  only  to  see  a  meaning  in  nature's 
easy  summer  moods,  and  seek  none  in  her  savage 
wintry  ones  ?  It  is  true,  as  of  old,  that  whom 
she  loveth  she  chasteneth.  With  her  "  passion 
for  old  giant-kind  "  she  loves  the  strong,  and  she 
would  have  him  stronger  ;  contention  with  her 
ice  and  her  bitter  winds  will  do  that  for  him. 

"Behold  the  life  at  ease :  it  drifts. 
The  sharpened  life  commands  its  course. 
She  winnows,  winnows  roughly ;  sifts, 
To  dip  her  chosen  in  her  source : 
140 


^^  Modern   Love,"  etc. 

Contention  is  the  vital  force, 

Whence  pluck  they  brain,  her  prize  of  gifts." 

**  Such  meaning  in  a  dagger  day  ! " 

Through  what  ordeal  we  may  have  to  pass 
before  we  can  submit  our  hearts  wholly  unto 
nature,  and  say,  "  Behold  she  doeth  all  things 
well,"  not  only  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  but 
in  that  colder  winter  by  the  graveside  of  our 
loved  ones,  when  there  is  no  light  anywhere,  no 
voice  but  the  voice  of  the  one  dark  fact — through 
such  ordeal  as  of  ice  does  the  poet  take  us  with 
him  in  A  Faith  on  Trial,  to  me,  in  its  stern  way, 
the  most  spiritually  helpful  of  all  modern  poems. 

The  poet's  wife  lies  between  life  and  death — 
indeed  there  is  no  hope  of  her  recovery  at  all — 
and  he  has  to  face  Love's  one  shuddering  question 
"  of  the  hfe  beyond  ashes."  He  goes  out  into  the 
fields  to  face  it,  amid  all  the  boisterous  rejuvenes- 
cence of  a  May  morning. 

"  The  changeful  visible  face 
Of  our  Mother  I  sought  for  my  food ; 
Crumbs  by  the  way  to  sustain. 
Her  sentence  I  knew  past  grace  .  .  , 

I  champed  the  sensations  that  make 
Of  a  ruffled  philosophy  rags. 
For  them  was  no  meaning  too  blunt, 
Nor  aspect  too  cutting  oi  steel, 
This  earth  of  the  beautiful  breasts, 
141 


''  Modern  Love,"  etc. 

Shining  up  in  all  colours  aflame. 
To  them  had  visage  of  hags ; 
A  Mother  of  aches  and  jests: 
Soulless,  heading  a  hunt 
Aimless  except  for  the  meal. 
Hope,  with  a  star  on  her  front, 
Fear,  with  an  eye  in  the  heel ; 
Our  links  to  a  Mother  of  grace ; 
They  were  dead  on  the  nerve,  and  dead 
For  the  nature  divided  in  three ; 
Gone  out  of  heart,  out  of  brain, 
Out  of  soul :  I  had  in  their  place 
The  calm  of  an  empty  room." 

So  walking  in  darkness,  sudden  as  a  white 
light,  there  flashed  upon  his  eyes  from  the  face 
of  a  yew-clad  ridge  "the  pure  wild  cherry  in 
bloom,"  the  very  bush  whose  blossoming,  spring 
by  spring,  he  and  his  loved  one  had  hailed  together 
as  a  symbol  of  the  Eternal  Resurrection — 

"  Celestial  sign 
Of  victorious  rays  over  death  .  .  . 
She,  the  white  wild  cherry,  a  tree, 
Earth-rooted,  tangibly  wood. 
Yet  a  presence  throbbing  alive." 

But  never  yet  in  any  spring  had  her  blooming 

seemed  so  like  a  revelation — "  there  was  needed 

darkness    like   mine."       Her   beauty   **  drew  the 

life"  in  him  **  forward,"  by  flashing  before  it,  as 

in    a  vision,    "  the  length   of    the  ways    he    had 

paced  "  since  those  mornings  when,  "  a  footfarer 

out  of  the  dawn  to  youth's  wild  forest,"  she  had 

142 


"  Modern   Love,"   etc. 

inspired  him  ''  to  the  dreaming  of  good  illimitable 

to  come."     And  still  her  message  was  the  same. 

She  was  still  holding  up  that  victorious  celestial 

sign,  true  still,  if  true   then.      Have  faith,  thou 

poor  stricken  footfarer,   still  walk  forward  as  of 

old,  and  trust — 

"Dream  still 
Through  the  maze,  the  mesh  and  the  wreck." 

And  thus,  leaving  "  the  Questions  that  sow  not 
nor  spin,"  came  into  his  heart  a  wisdom,  here — 

"  Rough- written,  and  black, 
As  of  veins  that  from  venom  bleed, 
I  had  with  the  peace  within  ; 
Or  patience,  mortal  of  peace. 
Compressing  the  surgent  strife 
In  a  heart  laid  open,  not  mailed, 
To  the  last  blank  hour  of  the  rack, 
When  struck  the  dividing  knife  ; 
When  the  hand  that  never  had  failed 
In  its  pressure  to  mine  hung  slack." 

It  is  rough  comfort   that  nature  gives  us,  but 
"  we  have  but  to  see  and  hear  "  to  win  it. 

"  Not  she  gives  the  tear  for  the  tear. 
Weep,  bleed,  rave,  writhe,  be  distraught, 
She  is  moveless.  .     . 
For  the  flesh  in  revolt  at  her  laws. 
Neither  song  nor  smile  in  ruth, 
Nor  promise  of  things  to  reveal. 
Has  she,  nor  a  word  she  saith ; 
We  are  asking  her  wheels  to  pause. 
143 


''  Modern   Love,"  etc. 

Well  knows  she  the  cry  of  unfaith. 
If  we  strain  to  the  farther  shore, 
We  are  catching  at  comfort  near. 
Assurances,  symbols,  saws, 
Revelations  in  legends,  light 
To  eyes  rolling  darkness,  these 
Desired  of  the  flesh  in  affright. 
For  the  which  it  will  swear  to  adore. 
She  yields  not  for  prayers  at  her  knees ; 
The  woolly  beast  bleating  will  shear. 
These  are  our  sensual  dreams.  .  .  . 
For  the  road  to  her  soul  is  the  Real." 

"  I  bowed  as  a  leaf  in  rain  ; 
As  a  tree  when  the  leaf  is  shed 
To  winds  in  the  season  at  wane ; 
And  when  from  my  soul  I  said, 
May  the  worm  be  trampled :  smite, 
Sacred  Reality !  power 
Filled  me  to  front  it  aright. 
I  had  come  of  my  faith's  ordeal." 

In     thus     writing    first     of    Mr.     Meredith's 

attitude   towards   nature  rather  than    his    poetic 

expression   of  that    attitude,   I    shall,  doubtless, 

seem     to    have     placed     the     cart     before     the 

horse.      It  is,  however,  an   order  to  the  use  of 

which     the    poems    in    their    entirety    naturally 

impel   one.      The  ideal    Art,    which    Mr.    Pater 

has  formulated  in  his  essay  on   the  School    of 

Giorgone,  is,  of  course,  well-nigh   impossible  in 

poetry.      It   is  harder  for  a  poem,  perhaps,  than 

for  any  other  form  of  art   to  *'  present   that   one 

T44 


"  Modern   Love,"   etc. 

single  effect  to  the  *  imaginative  reason/  "  which 
is  Beauty.  A  rigid  apphcation  of  such  test 
would  deprive  us  of  much  in  which  we  feel  rich. 
The  "  subject  "  must  almost  always  obtrude  itself 
on  our  intelligence  ;  we  can  hope  for  little  more 
than  that  it  shall  be  transfigured.  Few  poets 
have  the  power  to  give  us  the  pearl  in  complete 
solution.  Mr.  Pater,  it  will  be  remembered, 
instances  Shakespeare's  songs  as  examples  of 
such  achievement — almost.  Keats'  Eve  of  Saint 
Agnes  and  Tennyson's  Lotos-Eaters  seem  to  me 
to  come  near  a  more  difficult  success — more 
difficult  because  of  their  greater  length.  I  have 
been  wondering,  as  I  write,  if  in  the  little  poem 
of  The  Meeting  Mr.  Meredith  has  not  for  once, 
and  once  only  maybe  (unless  the  forty-seventh 
sonnet  of  Modern  Love  be  allowed  as  another 
instance),  been  so  victorious.  In  a  painting  of 
equal  power  one  feels  that  the  subject  would 
make  quite  a  secondary  appeal,  the  colour  alone 
would  give  us  its  entire  impression  of  dark  tragic 
beauty  ;  and  in  the  poem  one  really  seems  more 
to  see  the  figures  and  their  portentous  setting 
than  to  read  of  them. 


145 


^^  Modern  Love,"  etc. 

••  The  old  coach-road  thro'  a  common  of  furze, 
With  knolls  of  pine,  ran  white  : 
Berries  of  autumn,  with  thistles  and  burrs, 
And  spider-threads,  droop'd  in  the  light. 

The  light  in  a  thin  blue  veil  peer'd  sick; 

The  sheep  grazed  close  and  still ; 
The  smoke  of  a  farm  by  a  yellow  rick 

Curl'd  lazily  under  a  hill. 

No  fly  shook  the  round  of  the  silver  net ; 

No  insect  the  swift  bird  chased  ; 
Only  two  travellers  moved  and  met 

Across  that  hazy  waste. 

One  was  a  girl  with  a  babe  that  throve 

Her  ruin  and  her  bliss ; 
One  was  a  youth  with  a  lawless  love, 

Who  claspt  it  the  more  for  this. 

The  girl  for  her  babe  humm'd  prayerful  speech ; 

The  youth  for  his  love  did  pray  ; 
Each  cast  a  wistful  look  on  each, 

And  either  went  their  way." 


Be  this  as  it  may,  Mr.  Meredith  cannot,  I 
think,  be  said  to  be  among  the  poets  of  whom 
such  victory  is  characteristic. 

He    has    more     than     one     resemblance     to 

Browning,  but  he   undeniably  has  one,  and   that 

is  at  once  the  power  and  the  disregard  of  form. 

That  he  has  such  power  no  one  can  doubt  who 

has  read  his  Modern  Love,  The  Meetings  Phoebus 

with  AdineUis,  Melampus,  or  Love  in  the  Valley ^ 

146 


"  Modern  Love,"  etc. 

but  that  he  no  less  often  exhibits  that  disregard 
is  unhappily  equally  certain.  At  the  same  time, 
that  less  perfect  part  of  Mr.  Meredith's  poetry 
is  not  so  as  Wordsworth's  barren  patches  are  ; 
it  is  far  from  barren  indeed  ;  it  is  full  of  song 
and  flowers,  though  wild  as  wild ;  it  is  Hke 
a  mass  of  rich  yarn  that  awaits  the  weaver, 
full  of  threads  of  wondrous  colour,  but  still 
yarn.  And  so  it  comes  about  that  we  cannot 
speak  of  Mr.  Meredith's  poetry  as  a  whole,  as 
we  can  of  Wordsworth's,  wherein  division  of 
unmistakable  sheep  and  unmistakable  goats  is 
comparatively  easy.  To  select  the  perfect  and 
abide  by  that  would  not  only  be  to  leave  out 
a  good  half  of  his  work,  which,  whatever  its 
imperfections,  is  yet  full  of  beauty  and  power, 
but  would  also  mean  missing  a  certain  pecu- 
liarity of  flavour  which  these  very  poems  alone 
possess.  All  Mr.  Meredith's  verse  has  imagina- 
tion, music,  and  colour,  such  as  the  great  among 
the  poets  alone  bring  us,  but  not  all  has  that 
orbed  completeness  which  can  only  come  of  form. 
Thus  he  may  be  said  to  give  us  more  poetry 
than  poems,  and  excepting  Phcebus  with  Admetus, 
MelampuSy  and  one  or  two  more,  it  would  not, 
I   think,  be   unjust,  for  the   purpose  of  a  broad 

147 


"  Modern   Love,"  etc. 

division,  to  include  all  his  nature-poetry  under  the 
former  head.  For  they  read  too  often  like  the 
first  rough  drafts  of  poems,  loose  in  texture,  and 
full  of  dropped  stitches — here  a  line  of  masterly 
compression,  there  an  inorganic  stretch  of  twelve. 
It  is  poetry  in  the  ore,  all  a-glitter  with  gold,  but 
the  refiner  has  been  lazy  or  indifferent.  Yet  gold 
it  is,  gold  of  Ophir. 

It  is  doubtless  a  question  of  temperament  as 
to  whether  we  value  such  ore  beyond  the  finished 
work  of  lesser  men.  Their  chances  of  interesting 
posterity  are  probably  about  equal.  For,  though 
Art  is  indeed  the  one  antidote  against  the  opium 
of  time,  it  has  no  charm  against  the  disinte- 
gration of  the  elements.  To  granite,  marble, 
and  gold,  so  long  as  there  are  eyes  to  behold 
beauty,  it  can  give  immortality  ;  but  to  clay  it 
can  bring  no  more  than  the  life  of  a  day,  for 
it  cannot  save  from  the  sun  and  rain.  Our 
fashionable  modern  poetry  is  charmingly  petite ^ 
we  have  much  perfect  prettiness,  fairy  bric-a- 
brac  ;  but  will  not  its  airs  and  graces  seem 
old-fashioned  in  the  beau-monde  of  posterity, 
with  its  new  ton  and  its  own  crazes  ?  So  long 
and  for  that  may  its  art  save  it.     Meanwhile,  we 

do  not  live  by  prettiness  alone,  and  though  it  be 

148 


"  Modern  Love/'  etc. 

true  that  "  delight "  is  the  end  of  art,  there  are 
many  degrees  of  that,  degrees  mounting  from 
triviality  to  transfiguration.  There  is  a  trivial 
delight  of  eye  and  ear,  but  **  the  eye  is  not 
satisfied  with  seeing,  nor  the  ear  with  hearing," 
and  it  is  our  whole  moral  and  intellectual  being 
to  which  great  art  brings  its  great  joy.  It  can 
hardly  be  said  that  the  delight  of  the  ear  has 
been  forgotten  in  our  day  ;  indeed,  it  has  become 
so  much  the  fashion  to  appeal  to  it  that  some 
critics  would  seem  actually  to  believe  that  by  its 
verdict  alone  must  poetry  stand  or  fall ;  and, 
certainly,  a  supersensitiveness  in  that  organ 
would  seem  to  be  their  one  critical  qualification. 
Others  there  are  with  other  hungers,  and  some 
who  come  to  poetry  for  more  than  a  taste  in 
the  mouth  find  these  fondants  of  fancy  little 
satisfying ;  and  such,  if  they  can  only  come 
by  some  strengthening  thought,  will  not  be 
squeamish  at  its  being  a  little  raw.  Among 
these  latter  will  Mr.  Meredith  find  his  larger 
audience. 

I  should,  however,  be  doing  little  justice  to 
poetry  which  I  value  so  highly,  if  I  left  any 
reader  of  these  pages  with  the  impression  that 
for  its  message  only  is   Mr.   Meredith's  nature- 

149 


"  Modern  Love/'  etc. 

poetry  of  worth.  My  intention  is  very  different. 
It  has  one  lack,  that  of  the  high  economy  of 
form ;  but  it  has  positive  qualities  of  such 
power  and  charm  that  I  can  conceive  many 
loving  it  far  beyond  the  more  perfect  Modern 
Love.  It  is  rich  in  poetic  magic,  that  glamour 
which  so  much  art  that  we  feel  ought  to  delight 
us  lacks ;  it  has  all  that  unauthorised  charm 
which  irregular  features,  nevertheless,  so  often 
exercise.  It  haunts  you — a  certain  sign.  It 
abounds  in  delicious  measures,  in  lines  con- 
stantly thrilHng  the  memory  like  shooting  stars, 
in  pictures  delicate  "  as  the  shell  of  a  sound,"  or 
forcible  to  very  cruelty,  and  no  poetry  could  well 
be  stronger  or  more  fecund  in  its  imagery.  Its 
metaphors  leap  out  as  inevitably  as  the  stars  from 
an  electric  jar,  it  clusters  into  fancies  as  naturally 
as  the  frost  on  the  pane.  Yet,  nevertheless, 
it  is  not  so  much  poetry  to  stand  and  look  at, 
but  rather  to  strip  and  plunge  into  like  a  stream, 
deep,  strong,  and  bracing,  bright  with  many  a 
shining  reach,  and  happy  with  the  laughter  of 
innumerable  ripples.  To  again  change  the 
figure,  one  seems  to  taste  the  very  health  of 
the  earth  in  it ;  it  has  a  certain  innocent  wildness 

of  flavour   that,    wherever    we    are,    brings    the 

150 


^^  Modern  Love,"  etc. 

woodland  about  us,  rustling  and  aromatic,  in  a 
breath.  It  has,  indeed,  as  great  a  magic  of 
natural  association  as  a  whiff  of  hawthorn.  It 
is  like  a  feast  of  blackberries — not  excepting  the 
seeds  in  the  teeth. 


151 


VII 

The  Critics 

"For  if  the  Kinfi  lik:  not  the  comedy, 
Why,  then,  belike,  he  likes  it  not,  perdy.** 

It  will  scarcely  be  disputed  that  hitherto  Mr. 
Meredith  has  had  more  to  bear  in  the  way  of 
neglect  than  from  overt  critical  hostility,  though 
he  has  by  no  means  altogether  escaped  the 
**  self-appointed  thongmen  of  the  press."  But 
now  that  the  day  has  come  which  "  afar  off " 
James  Thomson — one  of  Mr.  Meredith's  earliest 
and  most  faithful  disciples — loved  to  prophesy, 
the  voices  of  criticism  are  well-nigh  unanimously 
in  his  favour;  and  daily  from  one  quarter  or 
another  come  critical  cuff  and  kick  to  impress 
upon  a  numb  public  the  latest  example  of  its 
immemorial  purblindness.  John  Bull,  however, 
is  too  well  represented  in  all  fields  to  lack 
champions  for  any  development  of  his  Philis- 
tinism whatsoever;  and  for  the  matter  in  hand 

152 


The   Critics 

he  some  short  time  back  sent  forth  his  Goliath 
in  the  person  of  a  National  Reviewer^  whose 
article  on  **  Fiction  Plethoric  and  Anaemic,"  in  a 
number  of  his  journal  now  about  a  year  old, 
deserves  the  notice  of  all  honest  men,  lovers  of 
fair  play  and  The  Egoist;  not  as  serious  criti- 
cism, but  as  that  British  public's  long  insensitive 
disregard  of  Mr.  Meredith  finding  voice  and 
endeavouring  to  justify  itself,  graceless  and  un- 
repentant. The  article  is  rude,  blustering,  and 
dictatorial ;  and  if  it  were  only  as  potent  as 
it  is  provincial,  it  might  possibly  scare  timid 
converts,  whom  Mr.  Stevenson  or  Mr.  J.  M. 
Barrie  have  won  as  subscribers  to  the  recent 
popular  edition  of  the  novels  **  in  monthly 
volumes." 

It  serves  too  as  a  wholesome  warning  against 
the  positive  tone  in  criticism,  and  indeed  reminds 
us  once  more  how  futile  is  the  quest  of  finality 
therein ;  a  futility,  indeed,  which  even  the 
friendly  Meredith  "  hterature  "  has  already  most 
abundantly  illustrated.  Let  us  glance  for  a 
moment  at  some  few  diversities  of  opinion. 
For  example,  who  has  not  been  tossed  on  many 
winds  as  to  which  of  the  master's  works  is 
Vmuvre  ?  for  each  one  of  his  novels  in  succession 

153 


The  Critics 

has  by  one  or  another  been  proclaimed  to  the 
honour.  With  James  Thomson  it  was  Emilia  in 
England  (ihe^n  so  named),  and  its  sequel  Vittoria; 
for  Mr.  Stevenson  it  is  The  Egoist,  Mr.  Barrie 
seems  to  lean  to  Harry  Rtchmondy  and  our 
National  Reviewer  finds  it  in  "  that  astonishing 
feat  of  unbridled  fancy,"  The  Shaving  of  Shag- 
pat;  The  Egoist  being  to  him  ''the  most 
entirely  wearisome  book  purporting  to  be  a 
novel  that  I  ever  toiled  through  in  my  life." 
Mr.  Courtney  has  with  him  so  much  of  the 
world  as  is  Mr.  Meredith's  in  his  unhesitating 
choice  of  Richard  Feverel,  while  it  is  probably 
the  most  "  superior  thing "  to  cry  "  great  is 
Diana. ^^ 

'*  Mr.  Meredith  writes  such  English  as  is 
within  the  reach  of  no  other  living  man,"  said 
a  critic  in  the  Daily  News.  "  His  style,"  wrote 
James  Thomson,  "  is  very  various  and  flexible, 
flowing  freely  in  whatever  measures  the  subject 
and  the  mood  may  dictate.  At  its  best  it  is 
so  beautiful  in  simple  Saxon,  so  majestic  in 
rhythm,  so  noble  with  noble  imagery,  so  preg- 
nant with  meaning,  so  vital  and  intense,  that  it 
must  be  ranked  among  the  supreme  achieve- 
ments  of   our    literature.       A   dear   friend    said 

154 


The   Critics 

well,  when  reading  Vittoria :  '  Here  truly  are 
words  that  if  you  pricked  them  would  bleed.' " 
Yet,  Mr.  Courtney  thinks  that  Mr.  Meredith's 
style  is  *'  never  easy  or  flowing,"  and  that  "  it  is 
impossible  to  attribute  to  our  author  the  gift  of 
style"  at  all  '* except  in  a  very  special  sense"; 
while  the  National  Reviewer  aforesaid  holds 
that  "  no  milder  word  than  detestable  can 
be  applied  to  "  (that  *  supreme  achievement  of 
our  literature '),  **  the  preposterous  style  of 
which  "  certain  quoted  ''  foregoing  sentences  are 
examples." 

To  James  Thomson  Mr.  Meredith's  dialogue 
is  the  only  dialogue  we  have  ever  had,  it  "  is  full 
of  life  and  reality,  flexile  and  rich  in  the  genuine 
unexpected,  marked  with  the  keenest  distinc- 
tions, more  like  the  keen-witted  French  than  the 
slow  and  clumsy  EngHsh  " ;  yet  for  the  National 
Reviewer  "  it  is  not  dialogue,  but  a  series  of 
mental  percussions,  its  hard  staccato  movement 
and  brittle  snip-snap  .  .  .  tires  the  reader." 
The  introduction  to  Diana,  again,  is  a  famous 
crux,  **  Of  all  introductory  chapters  to  an 
interesting  novel"  Mr.  Courtney  considers  it 
"the  most  irritating,"  and  yet  for  the  accom- 
plished   critic    of   the    Manchester    Examiner    it 

155 


The  Critics 

is  the  one  thing  in  the  book.  And  so  on 
ad  infinitum^  till  the  brain  fairly  reels  with  con- 
tradiction, and  in  agony  of  soul  one  cries, 
What  use  indeed  is  criticism  ?  Is  it  of  any 
use  ? 

Waiting  for  a  clearer  mood  in  which  to  answer 
the  question,  when  our  eyes  have  grown  a  little 
accustomed  to  these  mists  of  confusion,  we  may 
come  to  see  some  solid  ground  whereon  to  stand. 
After  all,  these  contradictory  figures  have  a  com- 
mon denominator,  and  by  that  may  be  illustrated 
what  may  be  regarded  as  the  only,  yet  very 
notable,  service  of  criticism.  Whatever  else 
is  to  be  proved,  this  at  least  is  certain — that 
George  Meredith  is  a  centre  of  power,  of  what- 
ever nature,  in  whatever  degree,  no  matter. 
So  much  have  we  learnt  by  being  thus  driven, 
as  we  may  say,  **  from  pillar  to  post."  Here  is  a 
notable  figure — consider  him.  This  is  really  all 
that  criticism  should  venture  to  say  with  an  air 
of  finality.  All  beyond  this  should  be  said 
tentatively,  with  an  ever-present  regard  to 
that  law  of  relativity  which  must  obtain  so 
long  as  light  is  coloured  by  the  glass  it  shines 
through.      It    is    not    impossible  that    after    all 

this     wraUj^ling    about    Mr.    Meredith's    novels, 

156 


The  Critics 

posterity,  in  its  quiet  way,  will  go  up  to  the 
shelf  and  lay  its  hand  on  Modern  Love.  Who 
knows  ? 

The  modern  attempt  to  affiliate  criticism  to 
exact  science  seems  to  me  a  strange  literary 
hallucination,  for  the  element  of  temperament, 
which  finds  no  admission  into  the  latter,  must, 
one  would  think,  be  an  obvious  and,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  a  permanent  disturbance  in 
any  science  of  criticism  however  broadly  based. 
And  yet  one  sees  individual  systems  appHed 
daily  as  confidently  as  though  each  were 
generally  accepted  as  long  measure,  authors 
weighed  one  against  another  with  the  certitude 
of  an  accredited  avoirdupois,  and  various  heights 
of  inspiration  calculated  as  though  they  were 
church  steeples,  and  criticism  trigonometry.  If 
criticism  must  be  dubbed  a  science  at  all,  its  place 
is  rather  among  the  occult  sciences,  and  the  divin- 
ing rod  an  appropriate  symbol  of  its  method.  We 
may  trust  it  to  discover  power  in  the  ore,  to  find 
out  where  gold  is  hid,  and  then  if  we  Hke  we  may 
proclaim  it  for  gold  sky-high  ;  but  measuring  and 
weighing  are  functions  impertinent  to  it,  except 
purely  for  such  satisfaction  as  may  accrue  to 
the  measurer  and   the  weigher   himself  or  those 

157 


The  Critics 

who  chance  to  be  of  his  mind.  It  is  alike 
impossible  either  to  measure  (once  and  for  all) 
or  to  overrate  good  work ;  there  is,  as  a  popular 
advertisement  puts  it,  only  one  quality,  "  The 
Best."  Some  critics  have  a  loose  way  of  talking 
about  true  poets  and  true  poetry,  of  bad  art  and 
good  art,  as  if  art  can  be  appraised  like  butter 
into  best,  middling,  and  common  :  work  is  either 
poetry  or  it  is  not,  art  or  not  art,  and,  if  it  is  one 
or  the  other,  it  is  equal  to  any.  Perfection  is 
equal,  and  all  art  stands  on  the  equality  of 
perfection. 

All  which  seems  simple  enough,  yet  why  do 
we  forget  it  in  fruitless  comparative  criticism  of 
matters  on  planes  between  which  no  comparison 
is  really  possible  ?  On  what  conceivable  ground 
can  Scott  be  compared  with  Mr.  Meredith  ?  Yet 
Mr.  Barrie,  talking  wildly  of  Mr.  Meredith's  pre- 
eminence, gives  him  a  giddy  place,  "  without 
dethroning  Scott." 

Because  they  were  both  novelists — Mr.  Barrie 
and  others  would  doubtless  answer.  One  might 
as  well  compare  their  works  because  they  were 
both  men.  Do  we  not  here  come  upon  the  mis- 
take that  underlies  so  much  criticism  ?  Instead 
of  going  to    an  author  to  find  out  **  the  virtue, 

158 


The   Critics 

the  active  principle  "  in  his  work,  and  noting  it 
"  as  a  chemist  notes  some  natural  element "  (to 
quote  the  helpful  words  of  Mr.  Pater),  many 
critics  go  to  him  with  abstract  definitions  of  what 
he  ought  to  be,  and  by  that  pattern,  should  he 
differ,  condemn  him.  If  he  cannot  be  made  to 
fit  the  ready-made  court  suit  they  bring  him, 
well,  he  must  stand  shivering  in  the  nakedness 
of  unpopularity  and — do  they  really  think  ? — 
of  oblivion. 

The  suit  into  which  the  National  Reviewer 
and  others  of  his  persuasion  would  force 
Mr.  Meredith  is  a  narrow  and  shallow  inter- 
pretation of  the  term  novelist.  "  Is  he  great 
at  construction  ?  Is  he  great  as  a  master 
of  narrative  ?  Is  he  great  as  an  artist  in 
dialogue  ?  Is  he  great  as  a  creator  of  cha- 
racter ? "  they  ask  all  in  a  breath  ;  to  which 
questions  they  immediately  proceed  to  attach 
vivacious  negatives.  No !  he  does  not  weave 
twopence-halfpenny  mysteries.  No !  he  does 
not  tell  us  the  old  stories  over  and  over  again. 
No !  "  he  tires  the  reader."  No !  Adrian 
Harley  is  *'  a  mere  tedious  personification — a 
prodigy  of  boredom  to  the  reader  "  !  !  !  Are  not 
the   types  eternally  fixed  ?      Who  shall  increase 

159 


The  Critics 

tbem  ?  Unlimited  Squires  Western,  Parsons 
Adams  ad  infinitum — now  these  are  the  types  for 
British  art ! 

Of  course,  as  Mr.  Courtney  writes,  "  it  may 
be  difficult  to  defend  some  of"  Mr.  Meredith's 
novels  "  on  the  hypothesis  that  the  primary  task 
of  a  novelist  is  to  amuse,"  and  such,  indeed, 
despite  certain  strictures  on  the  ordinary  novel 
reader,  would  seem  to  be  that  National  Reviewer's 
hypothesis.  **  Does  he  keep  awake  ?  will  he 
while  away  an  idle  hour  ?  "  are  the  only  questions 
which  he  would  really  seem  to  have  had  in  his 
mind. 

Is  the  novel,  of  all  forms  of  art,  to  be 
allowed  no  expansion,  is  it  for  ever  to  coin- 
cide with  a  dictionary  definition  and  be,  as  old 
Webster  has  it,  "  a  fictitious  tale  or  narrative 
in  prose,  intended  to  exhibit  the  operation  of 
the  passions,  and  particularly  of  love "  ?  If 
so,  it  had,  logically,  no  right  to  outgrow  its 
first  form  of  the  novella^  and  as  the  nine- 
teenth century  has  no  Arcadia,  it  should, 
therefore,  have  no  novelists.  Most  will  agree 
that  the  great  elemental  passions  are  the 
proper,  indeed  the  only,  themes  for  art,  but 
as  the  work  of  race-breeding  goes  on,    surely, 

i6o 


The   Critics 

these  are  continually  becoming  "  touched  to 
finer  issues  " — 

"  Change  is  on  the  wing  to  bud 

Rose  in  brain  from  rose  in  blood  " — 

less  and  less  do  our  lives  express  themselves  in 
the  extremes  of  action,  we  are  learning  to  be 
merciful  to  the  superlative,  to  know  something  of 
self-control  and  the  sense  of  proportion.  Thus 
there  is  more  meaning  in  our  little  fingers  nowa- 
days than  in  the  whole  strong  right  arm  of  the 
men  of  old  time,  we  lift  an  eyebrow  where  our 
ancestors  had  committed  manslaughter.  Is  pic- 
turesque sentiment  to  be  for  ever  the  only 
language  of  love.  Union  Jack  heroism  the  only 
garb  of  courage  ?  Has  selfishness  no  other 
form  than  cannibalism,  or  cruelty  no  subtler 
form  than  noisy  violence  or  coarse  malignity  ? 
Why,  therein  lies  the  limitation  of  the  stage, 
of  necessity  always  more  or  less  restricted  to 
the  obvious,  the  presentation  of  such  life  as  may 
be  expressed  by  outward  and  visible  sign;  and 
does  all,  does  the  finest,  life  always  find  such 
expression  ?  Is  there  no  drama  but  that  of 
labelled  "  act  and  deed  "  ?  Surely,  Thought  is 
the  most  dramatic  of  all  things,  yet  what  stage 
can  give  us  that  ? 

l6l  L 


The  Critics 

Of  course  our  National  Reviewer  knows  all 
this:  it  is  stale  enough,  maybe,  for  he  is  one 
of  George  Eliot's  disciples.  She  knew  the  drama 
of  thought  and  gave  it  to  us  in  some  types,  but 
must  "  victorious  analysis "  stop  with  her  or 
them  ?  There  are  subtler  individualities  than 
Tito,  and  shall  we  not  welcome  their  drama  ? 
Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  of  Patterne  Hall,  is 
one  such,  and  Mr.  Meredith  has  given  us  his 
drama  of  nerves.  By -and -by  there  will  be 
others  more  subtle  than  he,  and  then,  maybe, 
we  shall  need  a  stronger  lens. 

Wherever  there  is  life  there  is  a  story  (as 
wherever  there  is  criticism  there  must  be  pla- 
titudes), all  life  stories  are  equally  worth  telling, 
the  old  as  well  as  the  new,  the  new  as  well 
as  the  old.  The  National  Reviewer  and  his 
British  public  would  seem  to  disagree  with 
Mr.  Meredith,  not  because  he  cannot  tell  a 
story,  but  because  he  will  not  tell  the  parti- 
cular stories  they  are  solely  interested  in.  The 
disagreement  is  natural ;  we  can  but  applaud 
what  appeals  to  us,  like  the  squire  in  Mr. 
Dobson's  poem : 

**  He  praised  the  thing  he  understood, 

'Twere  well  if  every  critic  would." 

162 


The   Critics 

If  the  **  various  shades  of  grey  "  are  invisible  to 
us,  how  can  we  be  expected  to  be  interested  in 
them  ? 

With  regard  to  character,  is  the  word  to  bear 
no  other  than  the  stage  significance  of  "  character 
parts,"  to  be  applied  only  to  the  whimsical,  the 
eccentric,  or  the  provincial  ?  Again,  is  dialogue 
a  sine  qua  non  of  the  novelist's  art  ?  Do  all 
characters,  do  all  stories,  reveal  themselves  in 
talli  ?  The  drama  postulates  that  they  do,  and 
is  an  arbitrary  form  to  that  extent ;  but  on  what 
compulsion  must  the  novelist  ?  Certainly  not 
from  exigency,  like  the  dramatist,  for  truer 
methods  lie  to  his  hand.  And  with  regard  to 
the  objection  against  Mr.  Meredith's  dialogue 
that  all  his  characters  talk  Meredithese,  that 
never  man  spake  Hke  this  man,  and  so  on,  does 
not  the  same  charge  apply  equally  to  Shake- 
speare and  Browning  ? — yet  surely  Hamlet  or 
Lippo  Lippi  are  not  less  alive  for  that.  Literal- 
ness  is  not  the  essential  of  dialogue,  truth  to  the 
spirit  of  the  speaker  is.  There  are  many  in- 
stances where  the  letter  would  distort  the  whole 
significance  of  a  character;  indeed,  this  is 
perhaps  oftener  so  than  not.     If  the  novehst  is 

to  employ  dialogue,  why  should   he  be  refused 

163 


The  Critics 

the  same  freedom  in  the  use  of  it  as  the  dramatist 
or  the  poet  ? 

But,  in  truth,  of  all  the  above-stated  provi- 
sions one  alone  is  fundamental — that  the  novelist 
should  be  able  to  tell  a  story.  What  story  and 
how  he  tells  it  his  business,  not  ours.  Dialogue 
or  disquisition  matters  not,  so  that  the  end  is 
attained,  the  end  of  presenting  to  us  a  living 
thing ;  for  in  art  the  end  does  justify  the  means. 
Character  -  drawing  is  really  included  in  that 
fundamental  power;  for,  unless  we  have  a  vital 
grasp  of  the  dramatis  personcB,  the  story  is  not 
really  told  at  all.  A  chronicle  of  what  happened 
to  lay  figures  M  or  N  may  be  interesting,  but 
till  we  know  who  and  what  they  were  it  is  not 
a  story.  Events  have  no  significance  in  them- 
selves except  to  schoolboys,  who  get  over  the 
difficulty  by  appropriating  them  through  their 
imaginations  to  themselves.  It  would  really  be 
as  true  to  say  that  the  power  of  creating  cha- 
racter is  the  novelist's  essential  gift,  for  no 
character  can  really  be  drawn  apart  from  the 
lights  and  shades  of  its  various  relations  with 
other  characters  and  its  whole  environment,  to 
set  forth  which  involves  a  story. 

To  show  how  any  being  or  thing  is  alive  is  the 

164 


The   Critics 

end  of  all  art,  and  especially  the  novelist's.  If 
he  can  do  that  for  half-a-dozen  readers  he  has 
succeeded.  Why  should  the  "million"  or  "the 
average  intelligence  "  be  the  touchstone  ?  Fame, 
either  present  or  posthumous,  is  no  test  what- 
ever. It  may  be,  as  it  vi^ould  seem  to  be  in 
Mr.  Meredith's  case,  that  the  novelist's  methods 
of  presentation  are  eccentric  and  difficult,  or  that 
his  particular  story  needs  a  new  technology  like 
science.  He  may  write  in  the  language  of  an 
outlandish  or  forgotten  people,  in  Norwegian  or 
in  Latin.  If  so  he  must  not  expect  to  be  as 
lucky  as  Ibsen,  or  grumble  if  he  shares  the 
oblivion  of  '*  Vinny  "  Bourne.  There  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  do  his  work  in  the  vernacular. 
It  is  time  the  superstition  of  "  good  plain 
Saxon "  were  exploded.  To  do  much  with 
little  is  well,  but  to  do  is  the  essential,  and, 
once  done,  neither  number  and  variety  of  tools, 
nor  prodigality  of  materials,  can  depreciate  per- 
fection. 

That  Mr.  Meredith  does  not  write  the  verna- 
cular, at  least  in  that  of  his  work  which  is  most 
really  his,  does  not  so  much  matter  as  would  at 
first  sight  appear ;  for,  supposing  it   imaginable 

as    written    in    any   other    style,    in    their    own 

165 


The  Critics 

"  plain  Saxon,"  would  The  Egoist  have  any 
stronger  appeal  for  **  the  general "  than  it  has  at 
present  ?  Surely  not ;  for  though  to  some  of 
us  there  is  presented  an  unmistakably  living 
man,  and  the  greatest  master  cannot  do  more 
than  make  his  creations  alive,  and  a  story  much 
like  tragedy  beneath  its  ''comedy  in  narrative," 
he  is  a  man  who,  could  they  even  be  made  to 
understand  him,  could  not  possibly  interest 
them ;  and  it  is  a  tragedy  which  they  would  not 
appreciate,  because  there  are  not  four  deaths  in 
the  fifth  act. 

You  cannot  really  appeal  to  the  heart  without 
first  appealing  to  the  brain,  and  the  average 
brain  is  still  busy  with  the  obvious.  In  this 
respect  Mr.  Meredith  is  really  in  the  position 
of  a  poet's  poet,  one  might  call  him  the  novelist's 
novelist.  Indeed,  it  is  a  question  for  considera- 
tion, it  seems  to  me,  if  this  is  not  the  position 
of  every  great  artist.  It  is  a  commonplace  to 
say  that  he  is  always  in  advance  of  his  age,  but 
does  posterity  ever  catch  him  up  ?  There  is  a 
great  deal  more  cant  than  truth  in  the  chatter 
about  the  universal  appeal  of  Shakespeare,  and 
who  is  there  that  reads   Dante  ?      The  fact  is 

that  posterity  is  as  much  in  the  dark  about  him 

i66 


The   Critics 

as  his  own  age,  but,  a  few  dead  critics  having 
made  a  noise  about  him,  it  tries  to  get  over  its 
difficulty  by  unintelligently  making  a  superstition 
of  him.  Was  it  Thoreau  who  said  that  the 
great  artists  have  really  been  taken  by  "the 
world  "  on  the  faith  of  a  few  critics  ?  Anyhow 
that  other  fine  saying  was  certainly  his :  "  The 
great  poets  have  never  been  read  because  it  takes 
great  poets  to  read  them." 

Yet  there  are  at  least  two  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
books  that  should  make  that  "  universal  appeal," 
dealing  with  interests  near  home,  and  written 
mainly  in  the  vernacular.  Surely  there  is  plenty 
of  "  human  interest,"  and  ruddy  enough  humour 
too,  in  Evan  Harrington^  and  I  cannot  imagine 
a  public  taking  Adam  Bede^  and  finding  nothing 
for  itself  in  Rhoda  Fleming.  Richard  Feverel  is 
largely  on  another  plane,  and  makes  a  subtler 
appeal,  and  yet  if  it  gave  one  critic  (I  forget 
where  I  read  his  words)  the  idea  that  Mr.  Mere- 
dith should  be  able  to  write  a  good  boys'  book, 
there  must  be  much  in  it  that  would  suit  the 
public,  for,  after  all,  "  boys'  books  "  are  really 
what  the  public  wants.  *'  Plenty  of  blood 
and    brawn — never    mind   brain,"    would    seem 

to  be   their  demand  and  that    of  a   certain    so- 

167 


The  Critics 

called  '^masculine"  school  of  critics.  Do  they 
ever  reflect  that  the  craving  for  that  so-called 
masculine  comes  of  the  feminine  side  of  our 
nature  ? 

But,  while  it  is  really  Mr.  Meredith's  stories 
for  which  critics  have  no  taste,  it  is  about  his 
style  that  they  make  most  fuss;  it  is  even  a 
stumbling-block  to  the  wise,  at  times.  We 
have  glanced  at  some  diversity  of  opinion  re- 
garding it  already.  All  agree  in  quoting  the 
"  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  "  passage  in  Richard 
Feverel  as  perfection,  fewer  seem  to  have  come 
across  the  "  Wilming  Weir  "  chapter  in  Sandra 
Belloni.  But  his  phrase-making !  It  seems 
hopeless  to  expect  agreement  upon  that. 
With  a  polite  National  Reviewer  it  stands  for 
nothing  but  '*  coxcombry,"  and  yet  who  will 
quite  agree  with  Mr.  Barrie  when,  though  he 
hails  Mr.  Meredith  most  brilliant  of  living 
writers,  yet,  making  the  strangest  choice  of 
pet  phrases,  he  says  of  others,  ''these  are 
misses  "  ? 

What  Mr.  Meredith's  style    is  to  me  I   have 

already  striven   to  express,  and    some   of  those 

''misses,"  some  of  the  most  heinous   examples 

of    "  coxcombry,"    have    already   served    me    as 

1 68 


/  -^^H^i.  ■''■'>'!' ill/':', 


"  —      -TT — t^ '^  ^7V 


5*1? 


.n"--^^^ 


-'.-f^-^ 

t" 


The   Critics 

illustrations  of  his  excellence.  Such  is  man !  It 
is  all  in  the  point  of  view,  as  Mr.  Stevenson  has 
said.  Criticism  is  perhaps  the  one  thing  in 
which  we  must  live  to  ourselves.  At  most  the 
critic  is  but  the  tribune  of  a  temperament,  the 
representative  of  a  certain  intellectual  interest. 
The  ideal  critic  is  like  the  ideal  king :  if  we 
could  all  agree  about  his  wisdom,  his  power, 
and  so  forth,  there  would  be  no  need  of  politics ; 
so  if  we  could  all  agree  upon  the  man  who 
had  the  finest  culture  with  the  most  sensitive 
temperament,  criticism  might  pretend  to  finality : 
but,  meanwhile,  we  will  do  well  to  follow 
Mr.  Pater's  advice  and  attempt  only  the  ex- 
pression of  what  a  certain  work  or  personality  is 
to  ourselves — though  in  so  doing  please  let  us  be 
careful  of  other  people's  feelings.  It  is  in  art  as 
in  religion,  we  all  worship  the  same  thing  under 
different  forms ;  there  is  but  one  Spirit  of 
Beauty,  and  whatever  artistic  fetish  —  be  it 
''  masculine  "  or  what  you  please — our  neighbour 
is  kneeling  before,  we  can  tell  by  his  face  and 
by  his  voice  whether  he  sees  that  spirit  there. 
Cannot  we  keep  the  jarring  intolerance  of  secta- 
rianism outside  the  pleasant   lettered  Academe, 

and  be  neighbourly  over  our  hkes  and  dislikes  ? 

169 


The  Critics 

Is  it  not  possible  to  take  both  Squire  Western 

and  Sir  Willoughby  into  our  regard,  or  at  least 

to   hold  one  without  anathematising  our  fellow 

because  he  claims  to  be  capable  of  appreciating 

both  ?      For,    be    sure    that    the    man    who   can 

appreciate  the  Sir  Willoughbys  is  he  who  brings 

the  highest  relish  for  the  Squire  Westerns.     The 

greatest  danger  to    other   folks'  feelings   lies  in 

comparison.       Why    we   make    them    I    do    not 

know  ;  they  are  constantly  growing  out  of  date, 

and  while  current   they  are  futile.     Nothing  so 

much    as    criticism    impresses    one    how    truly 

odious    they    are.      It    is    well    to    admire    Mr. 

Meredith's  skill  with   boys  in   Richard  Feverel^ 

indeed,  we  would  not  lose  that  splendid  fight  for 

much ;  but  why  need  Mr.  Barrie  be  so  positive 

that  Thackeray's  boys  are  not  so  genuine,  why 

dethrone  Traddles,   why  say  that   there  are   no 

boys  like  them  in  contemporary  fiction,  even  if 

we  have  been  so  industrious  as  to  have  reaped 

so  large  a  field  ?     There  are  boys  in  A  Daughter 

of  Hethy   surely.     Criticism  should  not  need  to 

be  dated,   and   such,   to   have   any  value   at  all, 

would  need  to  be.     Richard  Feverel  and  Ripton 

Thompson     are    boys^    typical    boys,    real    and 

living.     Is  not  that  enough  ?     The  comparative 

170 


The  Critics 

method,  of  course,  has  its  uses,  but  latterly  it 
has  sadly  overgrown  them,  and  the  critics  are 
all  too  many  who  tell  us  who  and  what  a  writer 
is  like  and  is  not  like,  but  leave  us  almost  wholly 
in  the  dark  as  to  what  he  is.  Especially  do  they 
love  to  compare  him  with  the  most  outlandish 
authors  of  their  acquaintance,  apparently  scorning 
English  standards,  and  recognising  no  literature 
nearer  than  the  Kamschatkan. 

Let  us,  too,  avoid  the  superlative ;  it  is  a 
vulgar  form,  not  half  so  dignifying  as  the  simple 
positive.  '  A  poor  civic  tinsel  of  a  word,  we  cam 
only  wear  it  in  our  little  town,  and  that  only  in 
our  little  day/'  For  it  is  but  a  relative  term,  its 
value  must  be  for  ever  fluctuating;  but  plain 
good  endures  and  no  contingency  can  ever  set 
to  it  a  limitation.  The  parable  of  the  Talents 
is  suggestive  here.  The  man  who  brought  two 
was  called  good  and  faithful,  but  he  who  had 
five  was  called  nothing  more.  So  Art  considers 
her  children.  In  the  House  of  Fame  there  are 
many  mansions. 

For  me — maybe  for  you,  reader — Sandra  and 

Diana   belong    to    Art's    own    dream    of    great 

women.     Lucy    and    Richard    by  the    river-side 

are  with  the  great  lovers;  Sir  Willoughby  takes 

171 


The  Critics 

a  place  in  your  moral   mythology;    he   is  your 

wholesale    bete   noirey    every    day   you    cry    him 

Retro ;  Roy  Richmond  holds  you  by  the  heart, 

Adrian   Harley  by  the   brain,   and   somehow  by 

the  heart  too ;  for  the  more  you  think  of  him 

the  less  you  fear   his  cynic  pose.     Maybe  you 

love    not    Thackeray's     inns    better     than    the 

"Aurora,"  you  often  think  of  Evan  Harrington 

and  the   postillion,  of  that  delicious  ride  of  his 

with    Polly,    and    who    could    forget    the    great 

Countess  ?     Dr.   Middleton    and   that   aged   and 

great  wine  have  perhaps  made  your  cheap  port 

seem  the    richer  at   your  occasional   symposia; 

you   know  a  good    part  of  that   "leg"  passage 

by   heart,    and    often    find    Meredithese    floating 

on  your  talk.     You    have   quoted   ''the  vomit" 

as  you  poured  with  the  stream  from  the  theatre ; 

maybe  you  have  known  a  dear  face  "  swim  "  up 

to  you   ''for  a   brilliant   instant   on   tears,"  and 

been    grateful    to    Mr.    Meredith    for    that    so 

offensive  phrase;  and  thoughts  have  rung  little 

silver  bells  through  your  brain  in  the  midnight. 

When  your  blood  runs  a  little  thick,  have  you 

never  taken  down    Vittoriay  and  lived  over  again 

that  great  fight  in  the  Stelvio  pass ;  or  harrowed 

yourself  once   more  with  old   Squire   Beltham's 

172 


The  Critics 

slaughter  of  poor  Roy  Richmond  by  his  merciless 
shuddering  invective  ? 

You  have  felt  you  had  beauty,  comedy, 
tragedy,  in  all  these,  and  in  how  many  other 
characters  and  scenes.  So  have  I.  But  he  has 
not.     Let  us  pray. 


i73 


Postscript:    1899 

1  HAVE  left  this  book,  save  for  a  few  clerical 
errors,  as  I  wrote  it  in  1 889 :  a  boy's  book,  full 
of  boyish  faults,  and  yet,  I  trust,  marked  by 
some  of  the  excellences  of  boyhood.  At  twenty- 
three,  however  clever  we  may  chance  to  have 
been  created,  one  is  deficient  in  that  experience 
of  the  many  ways  of  living  which  is  necessary 
for  anything  like  a  complete  appreciation  of  a 
writer  so  shot  with  many-coloured  existence  as 
Mr.  Meredith.  For  example,  at  twenty-three 
one  is  too  young  for  irony,  though  one  may 
foolishly  affect  it.  Yes !  when  I  look  back 
upon  this  little  book,  I  feel  that  it  would  not  be 
out  of  place  to  decorate  me  with  a  little  bronze 
medal  bearing  the  legend,  **  For  Courage."  I 
assume  that  there  is  no  medal  "  For  Impudence." 
Perhaps  it  does  not  usually  happen  in  criticism 
that  the  child  is  father  to  the  man,  and  it  is  not 

175 


Postscript  :    1899 

given  to  us  all  to  corroborate  our  boyhood.     In 

the  main,  as  I  re-read  these  simple  enthusiastic 

pages,    I    rejoice    to    find    myself   of    to-day   in 

unwonted  accord  with   my  younger  self  of  ten 

years  ago. 

Certain  slight  changes  of  view  were  of  course 

inevitable.     Perhaps,  for  example,  while  holding 

Mr.  Meredith's  greatness  to  be  even  greater  than 

I    did  in    1889,   I    have   come  more   exactly   to 

understand  the  manner  of  it,  and  to  see  that  it 

is   perhaps   more   a   philosopher's    and   less   an 

artist's  greatness  than  I  could  have  been  brought 

to  admit  at  twenty-three.     The  charm  of  simple 

and  therefore  classical  form  is  one  which  in  the 

fermenting  period  of  youth,  when  the  simple  is 

apt   to  seem   the  obvious,  is,   I   think,  withheld 

from  us.     Of  course,  no  one  reader  can   speak 

for  another,  yet   I  think   it   very  generally   true 

that    the    young    reader    prefers    his    literature 

knotted  and  lined  with  thought.     Being  himself 

in  process,   he  is  more  interested    in   processes 

than  products.     I  confess  that  there  are  simple 

things  in  Wordsworth  that   I  have  had  to  wait 

till   a  few  weeks   ago   to   appreciate.     Browning 

comes  more  and  more  to  remain  with  us  for  his, 

not  few,  lyrical  simplicities;  and  so,   I  think,  it 

176 


Postscript:    1899 

will  be  with   Mr.  Meredith.     My  old   conviction 

grows  stronger  that  it  will  be  Richard  Feverel 

and  perhaps  no  other  of  his  novels,  Love  in  the 

Valley^  Modern  Love,  and  perhaps  no  other  of 

his    poems,    that    will    keep    his    name   alive    in 

English  literature,   in    spite  of  all   the  amazing 

inspiration  of  the  work  that  will  thus  be  left — 

gold-mines    that    will    always    be    occasionally 

visited  by  the  literary  antiquary  and  the  young 

man    with    a    soul.       Yet,    of    course,    in    this 

Mr.  Meredith  is  no  worse  off  than  many  another 

great  writer.      Wordsworth    and    Coleridge   are 

already  in   a  like  case.     They  live,   artistically, 

in  a  mere  handful  of  lyrics ;  but  then  there  are 

other  ways  for  a  great  writer  to   live  than  as 

an    artist :    he   may    live   too    as   a   spiritual   or 

intellectual    influence.       I  think    that    Coleridge, 

great  as  was  his  spiritual  influence   in  his  own 

day,  can  hardly  be  said  to  count  any  longer  in 

that  respect.     With  Wordsworth  it  is  different, 

though   I   think    that    his    message  will   tend   to 

become   merged    in    that    of  his    disciples,    who 

have  broadened  and  deepened  it,  or  at  all  events 

dissociated  it  from  the  ^<22/<;>^^r/>i- of  Wordsworth's 

own  method.     How  it  will   seem  in  fifty  years' 

time    one    need    not    conjecture ;    but    from    the 

177  M 


Postscript:    1899 

present  point  of  time,  when  one  stands  and 
ponders  the  universe,  it  certainly  seems  that  there 
has  been  no  spiritual  influence,  for  England  at 
least,  comparable  in  significance  to  Mr.  Meredith 
as  a  philosopher.  Had  Mr.  Meredith  only  been 
a  German,  Europe,  and  not  England  alone,  would 
have  welcomed  him  as  the  greatest  of  all  living 
philosophers,  a  position  which  at  present  seems, 
somewhat  inexplicably,  reserved  for  Nietzche, 
whose  philosophy  is  a  piece  of  bullying  reaction 
compared  with  Mr.  Meredith's  harmoniously 
developed  '^reading  of  earth, "and  whose  brilliant 
aphoristic  gift  is  at  least  equalled  by  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's. During  the  last  ten  years  Mr.  Meredith's 
influence  upon  current  thought,  perhaps  less 
directly  than  indirectly  by  means  of  the  younger 
writers  he  has  influenced,  has  been  very  marked. 
The  striking  reaction  from  the  materialistic  in- 
terpretation of  human  life,  the  renaissance  of 
spiritual  ideahsm — an  idealism  founded  on  the 
fearless  acceptance  of  the  facts  of  nature — have 
been  largely  of  his  creating.  His  ideals  of 
romance,  of  humour,  of  wit  have  been  the  ideals 
generally  accepted  and  largely  followed  by  no- 
velists and   dramatists  of  the  hour.     On   every 

hand  one  finds  his  books  as  the  chief  fertilisers 

178 


Postscript:    1899 

of  progressive  thought  and  progressive  art.  At 
the  present  moment,  indeed,  his  influence  may 
seem  echpsed  behind  that  Tory  reaction  of 
which  Mr.  Kipling's  is  the  captain  voice;  but 
one  has  read  Mr.  Meredith  to  little  purpose  v\rho 
should  be  alarmed  at  the  present  signs  and 
wonders,  and  forget  that  reaction  is  only  one 
of  the  many  mysterious  methods  of  advance. 
Surely  Mr.  Meredith  should  have  so  trained  our 
eyes  that  in  the  darkest  murk  of  reaction  they 
shall  still  have  clear  sight  of 

"A  morn  beyond  mornings,  beyond  all  reach 
Of  emotional  arms  at  the  stretch  to  enfold  : 
A  firmament  passing  our  visible  blue. 
To  those  having  nought  to  reflect  it,  'tis  nought ; 
To  those  who  are  mist,  'tis  mist  on  the  beach 
From  the  billow  withdrawing  ;  to  those  who  see 
Earth,  our  mother,  in  thought, 
Our  spirit  it  is,  our  key." 

Of  Mr.  Meredith's  work  published  since  1890 
one  may  say  generally  that  it  is  remarkably  of  a 
piece  with  the  work  that  preceded  it.  Its  excel- 
lences and  its  faults  are  the  same,  and  its  creative 
youth  is  as  lusty  and  prodigal  as  that  which 
created  Richard  Feverel.  The  inexhaustible  fairy 
well  of  his  fancy  proves  to  be  veritably  inexhaust- 
ible.    Some  of  his  loveliest  butterflies  of  phrase 

179 


Postscript:    1899 

flit  through  his  later  books;  and  whereas  most 
progressive  writers  grow  conservative  and  re- 
pentant as  they  grow  older,  Mr.  Meredith  has 
grown  more  and  more  audaciously  progressive. 

Of  poetry  he  has  published  two  new  volumes 
—  The  Empty  Purse,  and  Odes  in  Contribution  to 
French  History.  To  these  must  be  added  a 
new  edition  of  Modem  Love  (1892),  with  which 
was  included  a  characteristic  piece  of  Meredithian 
comedy,  The  Sage  Enamoured  and  the  Honest 
Lady.  A  second  edition  of  Modern  Love  exactly 
thirty  years  after  the  first !  Is  there  any  more 
astonishing  instance  of  the  tardy  appreciation  of 
a  great  poem  ?  Mr.  Meredith  took  this  unique 
opportunity  to  make  one  or  two  verbal  alterations 
in  the  poem  of  no  great  importance  or  felicity. 
In  the  thirteenth  "  sonnet,"  for  the  famous  second 
line  of  these  two, 

"  When  the  renewed  for  ever  of  a  kiss 
Sounds  through  the  listless  hurricane  of  hair," 

we  have, 

"  Whirls  life  within  the  shower  of  loosened  hair  !  " 

which  is  hardly  an  improvement. 

Then   in   the   fine   twenty-third   '^sonnet,"   for 

"  The  great  carouse 
Knocks  hard  upon  the  midnight's  hollow  door," 
180 


Postscript:    1899 

we  have  the  curious  alteration, 

*•'  Knocks  upon  hard  the  midnight's  hollow  door." 

In  the  finest  sonnet  of  all — the  forty-seventh 
— for  the  closing  Hnes, 

"  And  still  I  see  across  the  twilight  wave 
The  swan  sail  with  her  young  beneath  her  wings," 

we  have  "Where  I  have  seen," which  to  a  memory 
accustomed  to  love  the  first  form  seems  a  wholly 
gratuitous  blemish.  But,  of  course,  these  are 
mere  trifles,  as  are  all  the  corrections,  to  which 
one  may  add  the  omission  of  the  original  motto, 

"  This  is  not  meat 
For  little  people  or  for  fools." 

This  remained  as  true,  I  suppose,  in  1892  as  in 

1862,   but   perhaps    Mr.   Meredith    felt   it  to  be 

somewhat  too  obvious  a  statement. 

The  Sage  Enamoured  and  the  Honest  Lady 

demands  more  than  a  passing  mention,  though  I 

will  not  pretend  that  I  can  follow  it  through  all 

the  mazes  of  its  unusually  difficult  expression. 

It  reads  like  a  poem   which   Mr.    Meredith  has 

first  written  in  shorthand,  then  partly  translated 

into   longhand,    leaving    the    remainder    in    the 

original    shorthand    notes,    to    decipher    as    best 

we  may.     I  confess  that  some  of  the  shorthand 

notes  baffle  me.     On  the  other  hand,  the  general 

181 


Postscript:    1899 

drift  of  the  poem  seems  clear,  and,  at  all  events, 
the  great  beauty  of  some  of  the  earlier  lines  is 
enough,  whether  we  read  the  general  riddle  of 
the  poem  aright  or  not. 

"  Her  eyes  were  the  sweet  world  desired  of  souls  " — 

.  .   "  her  tones 
A  woman's  honeyed  amorous  outvied, 
As  when  in  a  dropped  viol  the  wood-throb  moans 
Among  the  sobbing  strings,  that  plain  and  chide 
Like  infants  for  themselves,  less  deep  to  thrill 
Than  those  rich  mother-notes  for  them  breathed  round  " — 

"About  her  mouth  a  placid  humour  slipped 
The  dimple,  as  you  see  smooth  lakes  at  eve 
Spread  melting  rings  where  late  a  swallow  dipped  " — 

"  these  flowers  grow  on  stalks  ; 
They  suck  from  soil,  and  have  their  urgencies 
Beside  and  with  the  lovely  face  mid  leaves  " — 

What  youth  ever  sang  of  woman  like  this 
*'  sage  enamoured  "  ? 

I  venture  also  to  quote  two  of  tliose  curious 
little  crippled  lyrics,  so  characteristic  of  Mr. 
Meredith,  though  not  unlike  Browning :  bright- 
eyed,  sweet-voiced  little  creatures  that  limp  and 
sing,  which  we  seem  to  love  all  the  more  for 
their  sad  crushed  feet ! 

Here  is  the  first : 


182 


Postscript:    1899 

"  Love  is  winged  for  two, 

In  the  worst  he  weathers, 

When  their  hearts  are  tied  ; 

But  if  they  divide, 

O  too  true  ! 
Cracks  a  globe,  and  feathers,  feathers. 
Feathers  all  the  ground  bestrew. 

I  was  breast  of  morning  sea, 
Rosy  plume  on  forest  dun, 
I  the  laugh  in  rainy  fleeces, 

While  with  me 

She  made  one. 
Now  must  we  pick  up  our  pieces, 
For  that  then  so  winged  were  we." 


Here  is  the  second  : 

"  Ask,  is  Love  divine, 
Voices  all  are,  ay. 
Question  for  the  sign, 
There's  a  common  sigh. 
Would  we  through  our  years, 
Love  forego, 
Quit  of  scars  or  tears  ? 
Ah,  but  no,  no,  no  ! " 

The  Empty  Purse  (1892)  is  a  philosophical 
poem  of  great  importance  among  Mr.  Meredith's 
writings.  In  its  literary  aspect  it  is  marked  by 
a  full  measure  of  the  obscurity  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
later  poetic  manner,  but  as  always  it  is  an 
obscurity  continually  lightning  with  vivid  fire  of 

phrase,  and  often  opening  out  into  rifts  of  lucent 

183 


Postscript:    1899 

and    lovely    expression.       Take     this    beautiful 
description  of  childhood,  for  example  : 

*'  There  the  young  chief  of  the  animals  wore 
A  likeness  to  heavenly  hosts,  unaware 
Of  his  love  of  himself;  with  the  .hours  that  leap. 
In  the  dingle  away  from  the  rutted  highroad, 
Around  him  the  earliest  throstle  and  merle, 
Our  human  smile  between  milk  and  sleep. 

Effervescent  of  Nature  he  crowed. 
Fair  was  that  season  ;  furl  over  furl 
The  banners  of  blossom  ;  a  dancing  floor 
This  earth  ;  very  angels  the  clouds  ;  and  fair 
Thou  on  the  tablets  of  forehead  and  breast : 
Careless,  a  centre  of  vigilant  care. 
Thy  mother  kisses  an  infant  curl. 
The  room  of  the  toys  was  a  boundless  nest, 

A  kingdom  the  field  of  the  games. 

Till  entered  the  craving  for  more, 

And  the  worshipped  small  body  had  aims." 

1  may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  quote  here  a 
passage  before  printed  in  which  I  endeavour 
to  explain  the  later  manneristic  development  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  style.  I  wrote  it  d  propos  the 
quotation  just  made,  and  I  said :  "  There  is 
scarcely  any  sign  in  this  passage  of  that  strange 
literary  disease,  a  sort  of  writer's  cramp,  which 
has  overtaken  Mr.  Meredith,  in  a  strangely 
similar  form  to  that  in  which  it  also  overtook 
Brownin*^.  It  is  not  merely  a  result  of  gram- 
matical compression.     It  is  the  more  compound 

1 84 


Postscript:    1899 

expression  of  endless  metaphor.  Both  in  Brown- 
ing and  in  Mr.  Meredith,  but  especially  in  Mr. 
Meredith,  the  fancy  —  or  should  we  say  the 
imagination  ?  for  the  imagery  has  more  of  the 
organic  nature  of  imagination — has  passed  beyond 
the  control  of  the  writers.  It  is  no  longer  possible 
for  them  to  see  anything  simply  as  it  is,  but  only 
in  some  fantastic  image  of  itself.  Almost  every 
word  is  charged  with  some  such  metaphorical 
allusion,  image  treads  upon  image,  without  the 
least  regard  for  proportion,  and  grammatical  idio- 
syncrasies adding  to  the  confusion,  what  wonder 
that  the  casual  reader  faints  by  the  way  ?  " 

The  Empty  Purse  is  described  as  **A 
Sermon  to  our  Later  Prodigal  Son,"  and,  stated 
briefly,  is  a  counsel  against  the  wealth  and 
luxury  of  our  modern  life,  particularly  as  it 
affects  the  youth  of  a  country.  Not  till  their 
wealth  is  spent,  till  the  purse  is  empty,  the  wealth 
with  which  ^'grandmotherly  laws"  indulge  our 
aristocratic  youth,  can  they  really  know  life  as  it 
is,  and  help  on  the  making  of  the  world  by  the 
needed  forces  of  their  young  powers.  Here  are 
one  or  two  characteristic  phrases  which  will 
indicate  the  general  temper   and  manner  of  the 

poem : 

18S 


Postscript:    1899 

"  He  strutted,  a  cock,  he  bellowed,  a  bull, 
He  rolled  him,  a  dog,  in  dirt." 

"  There  are  giants  to  slay,  and  they  call  for  their  Jack." 

**....   a  nursery  Past !" 

'*  May  brain  democratic  be  king  of  the  host  ! " 

"  A  Conservative  youth  !  who  the  cream-bowl  skimmed, 
Desiring  affairs  to  be  left  as  they  are." 

"  Peace, 
Our  lullaby  word  for  decay." 

"  There  are  those  whom  we  push  from  the  path  with  respect 
Bow  to  that  elder  .  .   . 

In  his  day  he  was  not  all  wrong. 
Unto  some  foundered  zenith  he  strove,  and  was  wrecked. 
He  scrambled  to  shore  with  a  worship  of  shore." 

"  'Tis  known  how  the  permanent  never  is  writ 
In  blood  of  the  passions." 

**  I  can  hear  a  faint  crow 
Of  the  cock  of  fresh  mornings,  far,  far,  yet  distinct." 

"  Keep  the  young  generations  in  hail. 
And  bequeath  them  no  tumbled  house  !  " 

"  Is  it  accepted  of  song? 

Does  it  sound  to  the  mind  through  the  ear, 
Right  sober,  pure  sane  ?  has  it  disciplined  feet  ? 

Thou  wilt  find  it  a  test  severe  ; 

Unerring  whatever  the  theme. 
Rings  it  for  Reason  a  melody  clear.  .   .  ." 

The  volume  included   several  other  poems  of 

importance,  notably  the  fine  odes  to  "  The  Comic 

Spirit,"  and  "  Youth  in  Memory/'  several  beau- 

186 


Postscript:    1899 

tiful  nature  poems,  particularly  the  lovely  "  Night 

of  Frost  in  May  "  : 

"With  splendour  of  a  silver  day, 
A  frosted  night  had  opened  May  : 
And  on  that  plumed  and  armoured  night 
As  one  close  temple  hove  our  wood, 
Its  border  leafage  virgin  white  "  ; 

but,  most  notable  of  all,  I  think:  "Jump-to- 
Glory  Jane,"  which,  with  all  its  grotesqueness, 
the  grotesqueness  of  its  subject,  is  perhaps  the 
most  sympathetic  interpretation  of  such  popular 
rehgious  movements  as  the  Salvation  Army  ever 
made.     I  quote  the  lovely  last  verse : 

*'  Her  end  was  beautiful :  one  sigh. 
She  jumped  a  foot  when  it  was  nigh. 
A  lily  in  a  linen  clout 
She  looked  when  they  had  laid  her  out. 
It  is  a  lily-light  she  bears 
For  England  up  the  ladder-stairs." 

Turning  to   Mr.   Meredith's  prose  during  the 

period,  one  has  to  record  the  appearance  of  three 

novels  no  less  notable  than  their  predecessors, 

marked,   like    the    poetry,   with    the    old    superb 

vigour,   volcanoes  of  starry  phrase,   gardens  of 

beautiful    women,    storehouses    of  wisdom    and 

comedy :   One  of  Our  Conquerors^  Lord  Ormont 

and  his  Aniinta^  T lie  Amazing  Marriage  ;  audit 

is  interesting  to  note  that  the  last  is  the  most 

187 


Postscript:    1899 

vigorous  of  the  three,  and  the  most  free  from  the 
bewildering  and  defacing  mannerisms  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  later  style. 

In  various  ways  they  are  all  concerned  with 
that  problem  with  which  Mr.  Meredith  has  often 
been  deeply  occupied  in  his  books,  but  which  he 
has  never  approached  with  such  outspoken 
radicalism  as  in  One  of  Our  Conquerors  and  Lord 
Ormont  and  his  Aniinta.  In  point  of  style  One 
of  Our  Conquerors  is  the  least  satisfactory  of  the 
three.  In  fact,  on  the  whole,  it  is  the  most 
irritating  of  all  Mr.  Meredith's  books;  it  contains 
more  crabbed  phrasing  and  less  felicities  than 
any  book  Mr.  Meredith  ever  wrote.  The  most 
impenetrable  passages  of  The  Egoist  or  Diana 
are  lit  by  electric  light  compared  with  the  average 
writing  in  One  of  Our  Conquerors.  Probably  no 
book  ever  written  has  begun  with  an  opening 
sentence  so  appallingly  deterrent.  I  quote  it  as 
a  curious  example  of  diseased  expression  : 


"A  gentleman,  noteworthy  for  a  lively  countenance  and  a 
waistcoat  to  match  it,  crossing  London  Bridge  at  noon  on  a 
gusty  April  day,  was  almost  magically  detached  from  his 
conflict  with  the  gale  by  some  sly  strip  of  slipperiness, 
abounding  in  that  conduit  of  the  markets,  which  had  more 
or  less  adroitly  performed  the  trick  upon  preceding  passengers, 
and  now  laid  this  one  flat  amid  the  shuffle  of  feet,  peaceful 

188 


Postscript:    1899 

for   the    moment   as   the    uncomplaining   who    have   gone   to 
Sabrina  beneath  the  tides." 

Of  course,  there  are  beautiful  things  in  the 
book,  but  they  are  few,  and  the  thorny  tangle  on 
which  they  grow  is  so  forbidding  that  it  is  to  be 
feared  few  have  ever  dared,  or  cared,  to  penetrate 
it.  If  you  can  only  once  force  your  way  into 
the  story,  there  is  the  reward  of  a  group  of 
characters  and  a  modern  social  situation  of  great 
interest  to  the  sociologist.  And  I  must  not 
forget  that  there  is  an  excellent  wine  chapter — 
"Old  Veuve."  Yet,  frankly,  the  book  is  a  weari- 
ness of  the  flesh,  and  the  most  devoted  Mere- 
dithian  must  feel  in  reading  it  that  the  limits  of 
an  indulgent  patience  have  been  reached. 

Did  Mr.  Meredith  ever  pay  the  least  attention 
to  the  complaints  of  his  readers,  one  might  almost 
have  thought  that  he  had  himself  realised  too 
that  here  was,  as  they  say  in  America,  **the 
limit."  For,  with  his  next  novel,  Lord  Orrnofit 
and  his  Aminta,  there  comes  a  sudden  simplifi- 
cation of  manner  as  welcome  as  surprising. 
Also,  the  theme,  again — as  in  One  of  Our  Con- 
querors— an  "irregular"  union  is  treated  on 
broader  lines  and  to  a  more  definite  conclusion. 

Indeed,  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta  is  the  most 

189 


Postscript:    1899 

important  deliverance  upon  marriage  in  English 
literature.  It  is  a  statement  of  the  case  for 
more  flexible  unions  between  men  and  women  of 
the  highest  authority — the  statement  of  a  great 
philosopher,  a  great  poet,  a  great  novelist;  and 
the  statement  is  the  more  authoritative  as  being 
that  of  a  man  close  upon  seventy  years  of  age — 
not  the  hotblooded  theorising  of  some  sensual 
boy.  Therefore  I  propose  to  deal  with  it  some- 
what more  in  detail. 

Lord  Ormont  is  an  elderly  national  hero, 
whose  vigorous  military  policy  in  India  has  met 
with  the  usual  revulsion  of  national  feeling.  An 
ungrateful  country  somewhat  beclouds  him  for  a 
time,  but  long  before  the  eclipse,  and  after,  he 
had  been  the  hero  alike  of  a  certain  boys'  and  a 
certain  girls'  school.  "  Cuper's  "  boys  and  "  Miss 
Vincent's"  girls  alike  adored  him,  and  this 
common  admiration  was  largely  influential,  in 
conjunction  with  other  natural  causes,  such  as 
manly  beauty  on  the  one  hand  and  womanly 
beauty  on  the  other,  to  draw  together  the  souls 
of  the  king  and  queen  of  the  respective  schools 
— "  Matey  "  Weyburn  and  "  Browny  "  Farrell. 
However,   fate,   in    the  shape   of  an  aunt,   was 

against  them,  and  they  were  parted.     By  curious 

190 


Postscript:    i8gg 

chance,   some   years    after,    "Browny"   becomes 
the  wife  and  "  Matey  "  the  private  secretary  of 
their  schooldays  hero,  Lord  Ormont.     "  Browny  " 
is  a  real,  or  rather  a  legal,  wife  to  Lord  Ormont, 
with  accessible  marriage  lines ;  but  from  a  certain 
perversity  of  disposition  he  declines  for  a  long 
time    to    make    the    marriage    public — with    the 
consequence   that  "  Matey's "  reputation   suffers, 
she  is  nibbled  at   by  one   or   two   adventurous 
lady-killers,  and  herself  grows  sad  and  lonely  of 
heart.     At  this  juncture  enters  the  young  secre- 
tary.    Space  forbids  my  following  the  game  of 
passion   and   honour   between    these    passionate 
and  honourable  souls.     Never  were  two  lovers 
at  once  more  passionate  and  more  honourable. 
The  game  is  just  one  of  those  subtle  tussles  of 
sex  and  convention  which  Mr.  Meredith  loves  to 
umpire ;   and  he  has   seldom   arranged   the  duel 
with  more  exciting  suspense  than  in  this  between 
"Matey"  and  "Browny":  now  passion  gains  a 
point,   and   now  law ;  now  law   seems  about  to 
extinguish   passion  once  and  for  all,  and  then, 
next  minute,  passion  has   the  lady  blushing  in 
his  arms  ready  for  a  run  with  her — and  so  the 
game   goes   this   way   and    that,    with    delicious 

interludes,  such  as  that  hour  at  the  inn  together* 

191 


Postscript  :    1899 

But  "  by  various  ways  men  attain  to  the  same 
end " ;  and  though  one  had  quite  given  up 
"  Matey  "  and  **  Browny's  "  romance  for  lost, 
just,  as  Drayton  sings,  '*at  the  last  gasp  of  love's 
latest  breath,"  up  it  flares  again,  and  the  reader 
is  made  happy  by  "Matey"  and  ^'Browny" 
counting  the  world  well  lost  so  that  they  keep 
each  other. 

It  is  characteristic  of  Mr.  Meredith's  method 
that  this  denouement  should,  after  all  the  noble 
struggle  and  self-denial,  the  resolutions  to  be 
'^good,"  of  the  two  lovers,  come  about  all  but 
independently  of  their  resolution,  by  sheer 
accident.  In  the  present  case,  given  the  situa- 
tion, the  conclusion  is  doubtless  natural  enough, 
but  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  situation  has  to  be 
somewhat  arbitrarily  supplied.  The  lovers  have 
finally  parted.  ''Matey"  is  going  to  found  an 
international  school  in  Switzerland,  and  he  is 
standing  on  the  deck  of  a  vessel  outward  bound, 
close  in  shore  on  the  southern  coast,  when  he 
sees  *'  Browny  "  bathing  ! 

The  impulse  to  dive  in  pursuit  of  her  is  too 

strong.     The  mighty  mother  has  her  way  with 

him,  and  the  idyll  of  the  two  lovers  swimming 

together,  grotesque  as  in  the  hands  of  a  smaller 

192 


Postscript:    1899 

writer  it  might  well  have  been,  and  impossible 
realistically  speaking  as  I  suppose  it  is,  is  one  of 
the  sweetest  idylls  in  fiction.  There  is  quite 
the  old  Richard  Feverel  bloom  upon  it. 

"  *  What  sea-nymph  sang  me  thy  name  ?' 

*  She  smote  a  pang  of  her  ecstasy  into  him  :   "  Ask  mine  ! "  ' 
'  Browny  ! ' 

They   swam ;    neither   of  them    panted ;    their   heads   were 
water-flowers  that  spoke  at  ease. 

'We've  run  from  school ;  we  won't  go  back.' 

'  We've  a  kingdom. ' 

'  Here's  a  big  wave  going  to  be  a  wall.' 

•  Off  he  rolls.' 

'  He's    like    the    big    Brent    broad    meadow    under    Elling 
Wood.' 

'  Don't  let  Miss  Vincent  hear  you.  .  .  .'" 

Thus  "they  swam  silently,  high,  low,  creatures 
of  the  smooth  green  roller.  He  heard  the  water- 
song  of  her  swimming/'  After  this  the  die  is 
cast;  Aminta  leaves  her  lord,  and  joins  her 
"Matey"  in  his  educational  dreamland,  while 
Lord  Ormont  shows  what  good  stuff  there  is  in 
him — not  to  speak  of  his  sense  of  irony,  and 
heaping  coals  of  fire — by  sending  one  of  his 
grand-nephews  to  their  great  school ! 

Mr.  Meredith  leaves  us  in  no  manner  of  doubt 
as  to  how  he  regards  the  situation.  Near  the 
end  he  has  this  significant  passage : 

193  N 


Postscript:    1899 

'*  Laws  are  necessary  instruments  of  the  majority ;  but 
when  they  grind  the  sane  human  being  to  dust  for  their 
maintenance,  their  enthronement  is  the  rule  of  the  savage 
old  deity,  sniffing  blood-sacrifice.  There  cannot  be  a  based 
society  upon  such  conditions.  An  immolation  of  the  naturally 
constituted  individual  arrests  the  general  expansion  to  which 
we  step,  decivilises  more,  and  is  more  impious  to  the  God  in 
man  than  temporary  revelries  of  a  license  that  Nature  soon 
checks." 

And  still  more  explicit  are  Wey burn's  solemn 
words  of  plighting  to  his  "  Browny  "  : 

**I  shall  not  consider  that  we  are  malefactors.  We  have 
the  world  against  us.  It  will  not  keep  us  from  trying  to 
serve  it.  And  there  are  hints  of  humaner  opinions  :  it's  not 
all  a  huge  roUing  block  of  Juggernaut.  Our  case  could  be 
pleaded  before  it.     I  don't  think  the  just  would  condemn  us 

i  heavily.  .  .  .  With  a  world  against  us  pur  love  and  labour 
are  constantly  on  trial ;  we  must  have  great  hearts,  and  if 
the  world  is  hostile  we  are  not  to  blame  it.  In  the  nature  of 
I  things  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  My  own  soul,  we  have  to 
see  that  we  do — though  not  publicly,  not  insolently — offend 
good  citizenship.  But  we  believe — I  with  my  whole  faith, 
and  I  may  say  it  of  you — that  we  are  not  offending  Divine 
law." 

Among  the  many  beautiful  phrases  with  which 

the   book    abounds    I    have   gathered    these    at 

random  : 

"The  forest  Goddess  of  the  Crescent,  swanning  it  through 
a  lake — on  the  leap  for  the  run  of  the  chase — watching  the 
dart,  with  her  humming  bow  at  breast."  "They  talked  to 
hear  one  another's  voices."  "  Her  look  at  him  fed  the 
school  on  thoughts  of  what  love  really  is  when  it  is  not 
fished  out  of  books  and  poetry."     *'  How  preach  at  a  creature 

194 


Postscript:    1899 

on  the  bend  of  passion's  rapids  !  "  "  The  vision  of  a  strenuous 
lighted  figure."  "  Thames  played  round  them  on  his  pastoral 
pipes.  Bee-note,  and  woodside  blackbird,  and  meadow  cow, 
and  the  leap  of  the  fish  of  the  silver  rolling  rings  composed 
the  music." 

For  sheer  vitality,  sheer  creative  "  go,"  perhaps 
The  Amazing  Marriage  is  the  most  Hving  of  all 
Mr.  Meredith's  recent  books.  If  the  theme  of 
Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta  might  be  described 
as  the  "  new  marriage  " — by  elopement ! — the 
theme  of  The  Amazing  Marriage  might  be 
described  as  the  old  marriage — by  mistake  !  It 
is  a  book  of  many  riches,  but  it  has  no  very 
general  significance.  A  cynical  overbearing 
eccentric  of  a  young  lord  proposes  impulsively, 
during  a  dance  at  Baden  Baden,  to  one  of  the 
superbest  young  women  Mr.  Meredith  has  created, 
and  then,  hoping  she  may  forget  all  about  it, 
disappears  to  one  of  his  English  estates.  But 
an  old  kinsman  of  Carinthia — who  herself  is  a 
wild  Diana-like  creature,  innocent  of  the  most 
elementary  matrimonial  wile — sees  that  Lord 
Fleetwood  keeps  to  his  promise.  Fleetwood 
keeps  it  grimly  indeed — ^just  keeps  it,  neither 
more  nor  less.  He  drives  his  bride  from  the 
church  on  a  four-in-hand  with  a  devilish  reck- 
lessness which  he  means  to  frighten  her,  hardly 

195 


Postscript:    1899 

throwing  her  a  word  the  while;  and  the  first 
entertainment  he  offers  her  is  a  prize-fight.  In 
short,  he  behaves  to  her  with  that  studied 
brutality  for  which  no  one  can  match  an  Enghsh 
aristocrat,  and  the  various  developments  result- 
ing provide  one  of  those  themes  of  tragi-comedy 
in  which  Mr.  Meredith  is  so  at  home.  In  the 
main,  however,  I  find  the  book  less  interesting 
for  its  drama  or  its  psychology  as  for  its 
descriptive  force,  its  picture  of  Carinthia,  its 
nature-pictures,  unmatched  even  by  Mr.  Meredith 
himself,  its  store  of  brilliant  aphorism,  and  its 
general  atmosphere  of  stage-coach  England.  It 
contains,  too,  the  best  prize-fight  since  Hazlitt, 
or,  should  I  not  say,  George  Borrow.  Carinthia 
is  one  of  Mr.  Meredith's  most  fascinating 
heroines,  and  as  she  entered  the  gallery  of 
beautiful  women  already  created  by  his  hand 
there  must  have  been  no  small  flutter  of  jealousy : 
Clara  Middleton  and  Diana  must  have  felt  an 
unexpected  insecurity  of  supremacy.  The  epi- 
grammatist always  in  attendance  as  chorus  in 
Mr.  Meredith's  novels — this  time  one  Woodseer, 
a  charming  figure  said  to  be  a  sketch  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson — has  many  shots  at  describing 

her,  but  they  are  none  of  them  especially  happy. 

196 


Postscript :    1899 

It  is  rather  in  the  general  impression,  variously 
built  up,  that  one  realises  the  splendid  animal 
and  pure  spirit  that  is  Carinthia.  I  am  not 
sure  that  Mr.  Meredith's  typical  girl — for,  after 
all,  like  every  other  novelist,  he  has  but  one 
heroine,  under  various  names — is  not  found  more 
often  in  America  than  England.  That  physical 
abundance  and  vigour  and  bloom,  combined  with 
an  almost  boyish  unconsciousness  of  them  in 
intercourse  with  men  —  comrades  frank  and 
open-hearted  out  of  sheer  innocence  of  being 
anything  else  —  that  one  finds  more  often  in 
American  than  in  English  girls.  Perhaps  we 
are  not  always  so  pleased  as  we  should  be  when 
we  find  it,  for  there  is  no  little  of  the  coldness 
of  the  goddess  about  these  young  Dianas.  One 
sees  Carinthia  clearhest  in  recalling  that  wonderful 
morning  walk  among  the  Alps  with  her  brother. 
She  seems  somehow  contained  in  the  very 
descriptions  of  mountains  and  mornings — de- 
scriptions such  as  Mr.  Meredith  has  never  sur- 
passed— and  one  or  two  quotations  from  which 
I  include  here,  as  no  passages  before  quoted  in 
this  study  so  well  represent  Mr.  Meredith's 
amazing  descriptive  power. 


197 


Postscript:    1899 

"Dawn  in  the  mountain-land  is  the  meeting  of  many 
friends.  The  pinnacle,  the  forest-head,  the  latschen-tufted 
mound,  rock-bastion  and  defiant  cliff  and  giant  of  the  triple 
peak,  were  in  view,  clearly  lined  for  a  common  recognition, 
but  all  were  figures  of  solid  gloom,  unfeatured  and  bloomless. 
Another  minute  and  they  had  flung  oflf  their  mail  and  changed 
to  various,  indented,  intricate,  succinct  in  ridge,  scar  and 
channel  ;  and  they  had  all  a  look  of  watchfulness  that  made 
them  one  company.  The  smell  of  rock- waters  and  roots  of 
herb  and  moss  grew  keen  ;  air  became  a  wine  that  raised  the 
breast  high  to  drink  it ;  an  uplifting  coolness  pervaded  the 
heights.  .  .  .  The  plumes  of  cloud  now  slowly  entered  into 
the  lofty  arch  of  dawn  and  melted  from  brown  to  purple- 
black.  The  upper  sky  swam  with  violet ;  and  in  a  moment 
each  stray  cloud-feather  was  edged  with  rose,  and  then 
suffused.  It  seemed  that  the  heights  fronted  East  to  eye 
the  interflooding  of  colours,  and  it  was  imaginable  that  all 
turned  to  the  giant  whose  forehead  first  kindled  to  the  sun : 
a  greeting  of  god  and  king.  .  .  .  The  armies  of  the  young 
sunrise  in  mountain  -  lands  neighbouring  the  plains,  vast 
shadows,  were  marching  over  woods  and  meads,  black 
against  the  edge  of  golden ;  and  great  heights  were  cut 
with  them,  and  bounding  waters  took  the  leap  in  a  silvery 
radiance  to  gloom  ;  the  bright  and  dark-banded  valleys  were 
like  night  and  morning  taking  hands  down  the  sweep  of  their 
rivers.  Immense  was  the  range  of  vision  scudding  the  peaks 
and  over  the  illimitable  Eastward  plains  flat  to  the  very  East 
and  sources  of  the  sun." 

Of   the    minor   character-sketches    which    are 

detachable  from  the  context,  that  of  the  postilhon, 

Charles   Dump,   is  most  successful,  and  is  also 

worth  quoting   too  because,  as  its  author  says, 

"When   once  you    have   seized   him    the   whole 

period    is   aHve   to  you."     He  gives    the   atmo- 

198 


Postscript  :    1899 

sphere  of  the  book,  hke  an  old  drawing.  A 
comparison,  perhaps  permissible,  is  Mr.  James 
Welch's  old  postillion,  in  Rosemary. 

"...  a  small  man,  looking  diminished  from  a  very  much 
larger  one  by  shrinkage,  in  thickish  wrinkles  from  the 
shoulders  to  the  shanks.  His  hat  is  enormous  and  very 
gay.  He  is  rather  of  sad  countenance.  An  elevation  of  his 
collar  behind  the  ears,  and  pointed  at  the  neck,  gives  you 
notions  of  his  having  been  dropped  from  some  hook.  He 
stands  with  his  forefinger  extended,  like  a  disused  semaphore 
post,  that  seems  trembling  and  desponding  on  the  hill  by  the 
roadside,  in  his  attitude  while  telling  the  tale  ;  if  standing  it 
may  be  called,  where  the  whole  figure  seems  imploring  for  a 
seat.  That  was  his  natural  position,  as  one  would  suppose 
any  artist  must  have  thought,  and  a  horse  beneath  him. 
But  it  has  been  suggested  that  the  artist  in  question  was  no 
painter  of  animals." 

From  the  great  aphoristic  and  generally  de- 
scriptive wealth  of  the  book  I  make  this  brief 
selection  : 

"She  was  not  of  the  creatures  who  are  excited  by  an 
atmosphere  of  excitement  ;  she  took  it  as  the  nymph  of  the 
stream  her  native  wave,  and  swam  on  the  flood  with  expansive 
languor,  happy  to  have  the  master  passions  about  her ;  one 
or  two  of  which  her  dainty  hand  caressed,  fearless  of  a 
sting;  the  lady  patted  them  as  her  swans" — "She  could 
make  for  herself  a  quiet  centre  in  the  heart  of  the  whirlwind, 
but  the  whirlwind  was  required  "  — ' "  Language  became  a 
flushed  Bacchanal  in  a  ring  of  dancing  similes " — "  Power 
of  heart  was  her  conjuring  magician" — "Then  you  sail  away 
into  the  tornado,  happy  as  a  sealed  bottle  of  ripe  wine" — 
"  Touching  the  picture  of  happiness,  conceive  the  bounteous 
Bacchic    spirit    in    the    devoutness    of   a    Sophocles "  —  [this 

199 


Postscript:    1899 

description  of  a  prize-fighter  entering  the  ring] — "  Ben  Todds 
was  ostentatiously  deUberate :  his  party  said  he  was  no 
dancing-master.  He  stepped  out,  grave  as  a  barge  emerging 
from  a  lock" — "To  preserve  Romance  (we  exchange  a  sky 
for  a  ceiling  if  we  let  it  go),  we  must  be  inside  the  heads  of 
our  people  as  well  as  the  hearts  ...  in  days  of  a  growing 
activity  of  the  head" — "Nature  is  the  truth" — "She  was 
moon  out  of  cloud  at  a  change  of  the  theme" — "He  was 
born  with  a  suspicion  of  the  sex.  Poetry  decorated  women, 
he  said,  to  lime  and  drag  men  in  the  foulest  ruts  of  prose." 

And  here  is  a  fine  passage  on  the  very 
aphoristic  gift  I  have  been  illustrating : 

"Woodseer  sat  for  a  certain  time  over  his  note-book.  He 
closed  it  with  a  thrilling  conceit  of  the  right  thing  written 
down ;  such  as  entomologists  feel  when  they  have  pinned  the 
rare  insect.  But  what  is  butterfly  or  beetle  compared  with 
the  chiselled  sentences  carved  out  of  air  to  constitute  us 
part  owner  of  the  breathing  image  and  spirit  of  an  adored 
fair  woman  ?  We  repeat  them,  and  the  act  of  repeating  them 
makes  her  close  on  ours,  by  virtue  of  the  eagle  thought  in 
the  stamped  gold  of  the  lines." 

"The  eagle  thought  in  the  stamped  gold  of 
the  lines  "  !  Could  anything  be  said  much  more 
finely  than  that,  and  could  any  phrase  better 
express  the  quality  of  Mr.  Meredith's  own 
magnificent  phrase  ? 

In  addition  to  these  novels  the  precious  essay 

on  ** Comedy" — to  which  reference  has  already 

been  made  on  an  earlier  page — has  been  rescued 

from   the  forgetfulness  of   The  New   Quarterly 

Magazine,  and  made  into  a  book,  winning  much 

200 


Postscript  :    1899 

appreciation  in  its  new  form.  Mr.  Meredith's 
publishers  have  also  issued  a  sumptuous  edition 
de  luxe  of  his  complete  writings,  which  Mr. 
Meredith  has  revised  for  the  occasion.  I  have 
not  had  the  leisure  to  compare  the  revised  with 
the  original  versions,  nor  yet  with  the  1886 
library  edition,  except  very  cursorily  in  the  case 
of  RicJiard  Fever  el y  which,  I  regret  to  see,  has 
been  further  chastened  by  its  creator's  hand.  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  go  on  preferring  it  in  its  original 
exuberance. 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE. 


30X 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


GEORGE    MEREDITH 

AND    HIS    REVIEWERS 

[1849— 1899] 

A    BIBLIOGRAPHY 

BY 

JOHN   LANE 


PREFACE 


As  my  first  attempt  in  the  direction  of  compiling 
a  serious  bibliography  I  put  this  forward  tentatively, 
being  fully  conscious  that  it  must  be  incomplete,  in 
spite  of  its  having  been  a  labour  of  love.  I  am 
naturally  anxious  to  add  to  it  in  any  subsequent 
edition,  but  should  no  other  edition  be  called  for,  I 
shall  still  be  glad  to  receive  any  information  bearing 
on  the  subject,  for  my  own  delectation ;  at  any  rate 
I  hope  it  may  be  my  privilege  to  extend  it,  by 
Mr.  Meredith  being  spared  to  us  for  many  more 
years  of  vigorous  and  characteristic  work. 

It  is  highly  probable  that  I  have  failed  to  find  all 
Mr.  Meredith's  uncollected  and  fugitive  pieces,  but 
I  earnestly  hope  that  this  effort  will  induce  others 
who  have  a  special  knowledge  of  the  subject  to  com- 
municate with  me. 

I  am  aware  that  Mr.  Meredith  contributed  to 
The  Morning  Post  and  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  in  a 


Preface 

journalistic  capacity.  His  articles  are  unsigned 
save  by  the  Hall-Mark  of  his  genius,  and  I  have 
not  attempted  to  record  them.  The  writer  has 
said  ''Let  them  lie,"  and  in  such  a  matter  surely 
the  author's  wish  should  be  regarded. 

I  have,  doubtless,  omitted  many  reviews  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  works,  but  I  shall  always  be  grateful  for 
references  to  omissions.  It  seems  to  me  of  greater 
interest  to  append  the  writers'  names  when  possible ; 
in  a  few  cases  I  have  succeeded  (those  within  paren- 
theses), and  the  result  is  curiously  interesting.  For 
instance,  Mr.  W.  E.  Henley  owns  to  having  reviewed 
that  masterpiece,  "The  Egoist,"  in  four  different 
places —  The  A  theitceumy  A  cademyy  Pall  Mall  Gazette  y 
and  The  TeacJier.  From  that  period  the  tide  turned 
in  favour  of  Mr.  Meredith's  works,  and  no  one  can 
doubt  that  Mr.  Henley's  brilliant  criticisms  [reprinted 
in  his  "  Views  and  Reviews  "  ],  which  won  the  praise 
of  James  Thomson  ["  B.V."  ],*  did  much  to  open  the 
eyes  of  critics  and  readers  alike. 

There  is  a  remarkable  review  of  "  Richard  Fe- 

*  Extract  from  Thomson's  diary: — '''■Saturday,  Nov.  i,  1879. 
Athmawn — Opening  article  on  Egoist.  The  first  critique  on  any 
of  George  Meredith's  books  I  have  ever  come  across,  in  which 
the  writer  showed  thorough  knowledge  of  his  works,  and  anything 
like  an  adequate  appreciation  of  his  wonderful  genius." — Vide 
James  Thomson's  Life,  by  H.  S.  Salt,  p.  140.     1890. 

vi 


Preface 

verel"  in  1859  in  The  Times,  which,  however,  has 
since  accorded  to  Mr.  Meredith  only  short  notices 
of  two  of  his  novels.  James  Thomson's  ''  Note  on 
George  Meredith "  [reprinted  in  his  ''  Essays  and 
Phantasies "]  on  the  appearance  of  ^'  Beauchamp's 
Career"  [1876]  is  quite  a  notable  thing:  the  Atlie- 
ncBuin  review  of  the  same  work  is  hardly  less  note- 
worthy. More  recently  in  the  Saturday  Review 
[1886]  appeared  an  excellent  article  on  '*  Mr.  George 
Meredith's  Novels  "  by  an  anonymous  writer  whose 
name — as  well  as  that  of  The  Times  reviewer  of 
"Richard  Feverel "  and  iht  Athenceum  reviewer  of 
'•Beauchamp's  Career" — I  should  like  to  have  been 
able  to  give,  as  they  must  have  been  the  means  of 
enormously  increasing  the  number  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
readers.  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  confessed 
that  many  of  the  criticisms  that  have  appeared  on 
Mr.  Meredith's  work,  whilst  not  unfavourable,  clearly 
indicate  that  the  writers  are  not  in  sympathy  with 
him. 

Mr.  Meredith's  printed  letters  are  provokingly 
scarce ;  I  only  know  of  six,  four  of  which  are  frag- 
mentary. Those  who  have  been  privileged  to  read 
his  letters  will  share  in  my  lament,  for  it  is  from  his 
epistolary  writings  that  we  best  learn  to  know  the 

man  :  in  them  he — as  it  were — bares  his  soul. 

vii  o 


Preface 

In  the  preparation  of  this  work  I  have  received 
generous  help  from  Mr.  John  Morley,  M.P.,  Mr. 
Theodore  Watts,  Mr.  Kegan  Paul,  Mr.  William 
Sharp,  Mr.  Frederick  Chapman,  Dr.  Garnett,  Mr.  S. 
T.  Whiteford,  Mr.  Gleeson  White,  Mr.  Charles 
Strachey,  Dr.  F.  Arnold,  Mr.  F.  J.  Simmons, 
Mr.  F.  G.  Aylward,  Mr.  J.  Marshall,  Mr.  Elkin 
Mathews;  especially  I  wish  to  thank  Mr.  F.  H. 
Evans  and  Mr.  Arthur  Symons. 

My  thanks  are  also  due  to  Mr.  A.  C.  Swinburne 
for  kindly  permitting  me  to  reprint  his  noble  letter 
to  the  Spectator  in  defence  of  *'  Modern  Love,"  and 
to  Mr.  William  Morton  Fullerton  for  kindly  allowing 
me  to  use  his  drawing — sketched  for  him  by  Mr.  W. 
Maxse  Meredith — of  Mr.  George  Meredith's  Chalet^ 
the  birthplace  of  so  many  characters  in  that  brilliant 
galaxy  the  like  of  which  the  world  has  not  seen 
since  Shakespeare. 


JOHN  LANE. 


37,  SouTHWicK  Street, 

Hyde  Park,  W. 
January^   1 89 1. 


VHl 


A    BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF 
GEORGE    MEREDITH. 


1849. 

Chillianwallah  (Poem).     Chambers's  Edinburgh  Journal^ 
July  7,  1849,  Vol.  XII.,  N.S.,  No.  288,  p.  16. 
(Not  reprinted.) 

1850. 
Extracts  from  a  Letter,  dated  December  17,  1850,  to 
Parker  (the  Publisher),  in  reference  to  the  publication 
of  "Poems,"  1851.  Messrs.  Sotheby,  Wilkinson,  & 
Hodge's  Sale  Catalogue  of  Autograph  Letters,  Lot 
144,  p.  22,  Nov.  27,  1889. 

Mr.  Elkin  Mathews  purchased  this  lot.     The  letter  is  now  in 
the  possession  of  Julian  Marshall,  Esq. 


IX 


A   Bibliography  of         [1851 


POEMS: 


BV 


GEORGE   MEREDITH. 


EOS  !  blest  Goddess  of  the  Morning,  hear 
The  blind  Orion  praying  on  thy  hill. 
And  in  thine  odorous  breath  his  spirit  steep, 
That  he,  the  soft  gold  of  thy  gleaming  hand 
Passing  across  his  heavy  lids,  sealed  down 
With  weight  of  many  nights  and  ni^ht-like  days 
May  feel  as  keenly  as  a  new-born  child, 
And,  through  it,  learn  as  purely  to  behold 
The  face  of  Nature.      .  . 
His  blind  eyes  wept- 

R.   H.   Horne's  "  Orion. 


LONDON : 

JOHN  W.  PARKER  &  SON, 

West  Strand. 


[Fcap.  8vo.  pp.  viii.  unnumbered  and  i6o,  and  slip  of 
Errata  at  end.] 


i85i]  George  Meredith 


TO 

THOMAS   LOVE   PEACOCK,   ESQ. 

THIS  VOLUME 

IS  DEDICATED  WITH   THE   PROFOUND   ADMIRATION   AND   AFFECTIONATE 

RESPECT  OF  HIS 

SON-IN-LAW. 


Weybridge, 

May,  1351. 


A   Bibliography   of         [1851 


Contents : 

*The  Olive  Branch. 
Love  within  the  Lover's  Breast. 
The  Wild  Rose  and  the  Snowdrop. 
The  Death  of  Winter. 
The  Moon  is  Alone  in  the  Sky. 
John  Lackland. 
The  Sleeping  City. 
The  Poetry  of  Chaucer. 
,,  Spencer. 

, ,  Shakespeare. 

,,  Milton. 

,,  Southey. 

,,  Coleridge. 

,,  Shelley. 

,,  Wordsworth, 

, ,  Keats. 

Violets. 
Angelic  Love. 
Twilight  Music. 
Requiem. 

The  Flower  of  the  Ruins. 
The  Rape  of  Aurora. 
South-West-Wind  in  the  Woodland. 
Will  o'  the  Wisp. 
Fair  and  False. 

Two  Wedded  Lovers  watch'd  the  rising  Moon 
I  cannot  Lose  thee  for  a  Day. 
Daphne. 

Should  thy  Love  Die. 
London  by  Lamplight. 

*  I  am  informed  that  this  piece  was  first  published  in  some 
magazine,  but  I  have  been  unable  to  trace  it.  I  should  be  glad 
if  any  reader  can  give  me  a  reference  to  an  earlier  appearance  of 
this,  or  of  any  other  poem  in  this  collection. 

xii 


i8si]  George   Meredith 

Under  Boughs  of  breathing  May. 

Pastorals   (see   pp.    101-5,    an    extended   version   of 

this     fine    poem    appears     at    pp.     87-icx)      of 

'*  Poems  and  Lyrics,"  1883). 
Beauty     Rohtraut     [originally     appeared     in      The 

Leader,  September  14,  1850,  p.  597]. 
To  a  Skylark. 
Sorrows  and  Joys. 

The  Flower  unfolds  its  dawning  cup. 
Thou  to  me  art  such  a  Spring. 
Antigone. 

Swathed  round  in  Mist  and  Crown'd  with  Cloud. 
No,  no,  the  falling  Blossom  is  no  sign. 
The  Two  Blackbirds. 
July. 

I  would  I  were  the  Drop  of  Rain. 
Come  to  me  in  any  shape. 
The  Shipwreck  of  Idomeneus. 
The  Longest  Day. 
To  Robin  Redbreast. 
The  Daisy  now  is  out  upon  the  green. 
Sunrise. 

Pictures  of  the  Rhine. 
To  a  Nightingale. 

Reviews.  —  The  Leader,  pp.  635,  636,  July  5,  1851.  The  Spec- 
tator, p.  642,  July  5,  1851.  The  Athencetcm,  p.  S95,  Aug.  23,  1851. 
The  Critic,  pp.  539,  540  (by  William  Michael  Rossetti),  Nov.  15, 
1851.  Fraser's  Magazine,  Vol.  XLIV.,  pp.  629-31,  Dec,  1851  (by 
Chas.  Kingsley).  Edinburgh  Review,  pp.  355,  356,  Oct.,  1856, 
The  Curio  (U.S.A.),  pp.  265-7,  by  J.  Rogers  Rees,  Jan.-Feb., 
1888. 

Invitation  to  the  Country  (Poem).     Fraser's  Magazine^ 
Aug.  1851,  Vol.  XLIV.,  pp.  217,  218. 
(Not  reprinted.) 


xiu 


A   Bibliography  of       [1851-6 

To  Alex.  Smith,  the  Glasgow  Poet  (Sonnet).  The  Leader^ 
Dec.  20,  1851,  p.  I2I2. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

1852. 

The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  (Poem).  Fraser's  Magazine^ 
June,  1852,  Vol.  XLV.,  p.  699. 

1856. 

THE  I  SHAVING  OF  SHAGPAT.  |  An  Arabian 
Entertainment.  |  By  |  George  Meredith.  |  Lon- 
don: ;  Chapman  &  Hall,  193,  Piccadilly.  1856.  | 
\The  author  reserves  the  right  of  translating  this 
work.]     Crown  8vo,  pp.  viii.  384. 

The  * 'remainder"  of  this  Edition  was  sold  off  in  red  cloth, 
without  lettering  on  side,  with  price  (loj.  6d.)  on  back,  and  edges 
trimmed. 

This  Edition  has  the  following  Prefatory  Note  : 

It  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  only  way  to  tell  an  Arabian 
Story  was  by  imitating  the  style  and  manners  of  the  Oriental 
Story-tellers.  But  such  an  attempt,  whether  successful  or  not, 
may  read  like  a  translation  :  I  therefore  think  it  better  to  prelude 
this  Entertainment  by  an  avowal  that  it  springs  from  no  Eastern 
source,  and  is  in  every  respect  an  original  Work.  G.  M. 

December  8,  1855. 

The  Second  Edition  of  this  work  was  issued  in  1865, 
by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall, in  the  Series  of  "Standard 
Editions  of  Popular  Authors,"  with  a  Frontispiece  of 
"  Bhanavar  among  the  Serpents  of  Lake  Kasatis ;  " 
designed  by  F.  Sandys  and  engraved  by  J.  Saddler. 
Crown  8vo,  pp.  viii.  283, 

xiv 


^856]  George   Meredith 

The  following  new  Prefatory  Note  was  written  for  this 
Edition  : — 

"  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  by  one  who  has  no  fear  of 
Allegories  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  that  the  hairy  Shagpat  must 
stand  to  mean  umbrageous  Humbug  conquering  the  sons  of  men  ; 
and  that  Noorna  bin  Noorka  represents  the  Seasons,  which  help 
us,  if  there  is  health  in  us,  to  dispel  the  affliction  of  his  shadow  ; 
while  my  heroic  Shibli  Bagarag  is  actually  to  be  taken  for 
Circumstance,  which  works  under  their  changeful  guidance 
towards  our  ultimate  release  from  bondage,  but  with  a  disap- 
pointing apparent  waywardness.  The  excuse  for  such  behaviour 
as  this  youth  exhibits,  is  so  good  that  I  would  willingly  let  him 
wear  the  grand  mask  hereby  offered  to  him.  But,  though  his 
backslidings  cry  loudly  for  some  sheltering  plea,  or  garb  of 
dignity,  and  though  a  story-teller  should  be  flattered  to  have  it 
supposed  that  anything  very  distinct  was  intended  by  him,  the 
Allegory  must  be  rejected  altogether.  The  subtle  Arab  who 
conceived  Shagpat,  meant  either  very  much  more,  or  he  meant 
less  ;  and  my  belief  is,  that,  designing  in  his  wisdom  simply  to 
amuse,  he  attempted  to  give  a  larger  embrace  to  time  than  is 
possible  to  the  profound  dispenser  of  Allegories,  which  are 
mortal ;  which,  to  be  of  any  value,  must  be  perfectly  clear,  and, 
when  perfectly  clear,  are  as  little  attractive  as  Mrs.  Malaprop's 
reptile." 

This  Edition  has  the  following  dedication: — "Affectionately 
inscribed  to  William  Hardman,  of  Norbiton  Hall." 

(Sir  William  Hardman,  for  1 8  years  Editor  of  The  Morning 
Post,  died  on  September  ii,  1890,  aged  62.) 

Another  Edition  was  issued  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall, 
in  Pictorial  Boards,  at  2s.,  12 mo,  1872. 

In  this  issue  the  Prefatory  Note  of  the  second  edition  is 
repeated. 

Reprinted,  with  "  Farina,"  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall, 
in  the  Collected  Editions  of  1887  and  1889,  in  both 

XV 


A   Bibliography   of         [1S56 

of  which  the  prefatory  notes  are  omitted.    Crown  8vo, 
pp.  vi.  412. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

Reviews.  —  The  Spectator^  p.  1366,  Dec.  20,  1855.  The  Ex- 
aminer, Dec.  29,  1855.  The  Critic,  p.  15,  Jan.  i,  1856.  The 
AtJiencEum,  pp.  6,  7,  Jan.  5,  1856.  The  Leader,  pp.  13-17,  Jan.  5, 
1856.  The  Sun,  Jan.  8,  1856.  Saturday  Review,  p.  216,  Jan.  19, 
1856.  The  Idler,  No.  3,  pp.  191,  192,  March,  1856.  Westj?iinsier 
Review,  No.  18,  N.S.,  Vol.  IX.,  pp.  638,  639  (by  George  Eliot), 
April,  1856.  The  New  Quarterly  Review,  No.  18,  pp.  149-52,  April, 
1856.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  ^.  $,  May  7,  1887.  The  Literary  World 
(Boston),  p.  285,  Sept.  3,  1S87. 


xn 


i857]  George   Meredith 

1857- 

FARINA :  |  A  Legend  of  Cologne.  |  By  |  George 
Meredith,  |  author  of  "  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat."  | 
London:  |  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.,  65  Cornhill.  |  1857.  1 
Crown  8vo,  pp.  iv.  unnumbered  and  244. 

A  Second  Edition,  with  an  engraved  title-page  by  Mr. 
W.  J.  Linton,  after  the  design  of  Mr.  Walter  Crane, 
was  issued  by  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.  1865. 
Cloth,  crown  8vo,  pp.  248. 

This  work  also  appeared  in  1865  in  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.'s 
"Standard  Authors"  Series,  at  is.  With  the  exception  of 
the  engraved  title  being  used  for  the  paper  cover,  this  edition 
is  identical  with  the  second.  In  this  series  the  work  went  into 
at  least  three  editions,  but  I  have  only  been  able  to  collate  the 
first  and  third  editions  in  this  form,  the  latter  differs  slightlj 
inasmuch  as  it  was  issued  by  Chapman  &  Hall,  1868,  and  has  a 
printed  title-page,  Mr.  Crane's  design  (in  colours)  being  used  for 
the  cover. 

Reprinted  with  "  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  by  Messrs. 
Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected  Editions  of  1887 
and  1889.     Crown  8vo,  pp.  vi.  412. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

Reviews. — T/ie  Spectator,  pp.  886,  887,  Aug.  22,  1857.  The 
Examiner,  p.  532,  Aug.,  1857.  The  Saturday  Review,  p.  207, 
Aug.  29,  1857.  The  Leader,  p.  %y],  Aug.  29,  1857.  The  Critic, 
p.  394,  Sept.  I,  1857.  The  Daily  News,  Sept.  3,  1857.  The  Globe, 
Sept.  7,  1857.  The  Press,  p.  898,  Sept.  12,  1857.  Westminster 
Review,  pp.  597-9,  No.  24,  Vol.  XII.,  N.S.  (by  George  Eliot), 
Oct.,  1857.  Morning  Post,  Nov.  20,  1857.  Athenaum,  pp.  1483, 
1484,  Nov.  28,  1857.     Eclectic  Review,  pp.  457-61,  May,  1^58. 

xvii 


A   Bibliography  of         [1^59 
1859. 

THE  ORDEAL  |  OF  |  RICHARD  FEVEREL.  |  A 
History  of  Father  and  Son.  |  By  |  George 
Meredith.  |  In  three  volumes.  |  London :  |  Chap- 
man &  Hall,  193,  Piccadilly.  |  1859.  |  [The  right  of 
Translation  is  reserved.'^  Crown  8vo.  Vol.  I.,  pp.  iv. 
303;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  iv.  348;  Vol.  III.,  pp.  iv.  395. 

Second  Edition.  Frontispiece  by  C.  O.  M(urray).  One 
vol.  8vo,  pp.  484.     Kegan  Paul,  1878. 

In  this  edition,  and  in  all  subsequent  ones,  the  work  is  largely 
altered  and  condensed. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1885,  1888,  and  1890.     8vo,  pp.  472. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

A  Colonial  Edition,  identical  with  the  above,  was  printed 
for  Messrs.  G.  Robertson  &  Co.  in  1887. 

This  work  is  included  in  Baron  Tauchnitz's  "Collection of 
British  Authors."     In  2  vols.,  pp.  632.     1875. 

Cheap  Edition.  Reprinted  from  the  Revised  Edition  of 
1 89 7, by  George  Newnes,  Limited, London,  by  arrange- 
ment with  Messrs.  Archibald  Constable  &  Co.  Large 
crown  8vo,  pp.  216.  Paper  wrapper,  with  portrait  on 
front. 

xviii 


i859]  George   Meredith 

Compressed  Translations. 

L'Epreuve  de  Richard  Feverel :  Roman  de  la  vie  Anglaise 
de  M.  George  Meredith.     Par  M.  E.  D.  Forgues. 

Revue  des  Deux  Mondes. — Premiere  Partie,  April  15,  1865  ; 
Deuxieme  Partie,  May  i,  1865  ;  Derniere  Partie,  May  15,  1865. 

Riccardo  Feverel.  Per  Giorgio  Meredith.  Versione 
dall'  inglese  di  L.  Padoa.  Milano  :  Emilio  Croci, 
Editore.  1873,  2  vols.,  i2mo,  pp.  240.  Pictorial 
paper  wrappers. 

Reviews.  — T'/^^  Critic,  pp.  6,  7,  July  2,  1859.  The  Leader, 
P-  7985  July  2,  1859.  The  AthencEum,  p.  48,  July  9,  1859. 
Saturday  Review,  pp.  48,  49,  July  9,  1859.  The  Spectator,  pp.  717, 
718,  July  9,  1859.  The  Illustrated  London  Nezvs,  p.  165,  Aug.  13, 
1859.  The  Ti??ies,  p.  5,  Oct.  14,  1859.  Westminster  Review, 
Vol.  XVI.,  N.S.,  p.  627,  Oct.  14,  1859.  Westminster  Review,  July, 
1864.  Copers  Tobacco  Plant,  p.  5  (by  James  Thomson),  May, 
1879.  Time,  Vol.  II.,  N.S.,  pp.  751,  752  (by  Arthur  Symons), 
Dec,  1883.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  5,  Dec.  12,  1885.  Vanity  Fair, 
Jan.  16,  1886. 

The  Song  of  Courtesy  (Poem),  with  an  Illustration  by 
J.  Tenniel.      Once  a    Week,   July    9,    1859,  Vol.   I., 

P-  30- 

(Not  reprinted.) 

The  Three  Maidens  (Poem),  with  an  Illustration  by 
Hablot  K.  Browne.  Once  a  Week,  July  30,  1859, 
Vol.  I.,  p.  96. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

Over  the  Hills  (Poem),  with  an  Illustration  by  Hablot 
K.  Browne.      Once  a  Week,  Aug.   20,  1859,  Vol.  I., 

p.  160. 

(Not  reprinted.) 


A   Bibliography  of         C1859 

The  Crown  of  Love  (Poem),  with  an  Illustration  by  (Sir) 

J.  E.  Millais.     Once  a  Week,  Dec.  31,  1859.     Vol.  II., 

p.  10. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

A  STORY-TELLING  PARTY.  |  Being  a  Recital 
OF  Certain  Miserable  Days  |  and  Nights  Passed, 
Wherewith  to  Warm  the  Heart  of  the  Christ- 
mas Season.    (Unsigned)  Once  a  Week,  Dec.  24,  1859, 

PP-  535-542. 

(Not  reprinted.) 


i86i]  George  Meredith 


1861. 

EVAN  HARRINGTON.  |  By  |  George  Meredith,  I 
author  of  "  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  |  "  The 
Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  |  etc.  |  In  3  volumes.  )  Lon- 
don :  I  Bradbury  and  Evans,  11,  Bouverie  Street.  | 
1 861.  I  [The  right  of  translation  is  reserved.'\  Crown 
8vo,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  iv.  302  ;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  iv.  279  ;  Vol. 
III.,  pp.  vii.  282.     In  47  chapters. 

This  work  originally  appeared  in  47  chapters  in  Once  a  Week, 
with  40  illustrations  by  Charles  Keene,  from  Feb.  11  to  Oct.  13, 
i860,  inclusive,  under  the  title  of  "Evan  Harrington;  or,  He 
would  be  a  Gentleman." 

Second  Edition,  with  a  Frontispiece  by  Charles  Keene, 
was  issued  by  Messrs.  Bradbury,  Evans,  &  Co.,  1866. 
I  vol.  crown  8vo,  pp.  iv.  519. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1885  and  1889,  pp.  iv.  519. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

A  Colonial  Edition,  identical  with  the  above,  was  printed 
for  Messrs.  G.  Robertson  &  Co.  in  1888. 


A   Bibliography  of         [1861 

Unauthorised  Edition. 

This  work  was  published  in  America,  by  Messrs.  Harper 
&  Bros.,  in  i860,  before  it  had  been  reprinted  in  this 
country,  with  the  sub-title,  as  follows  : — "  Evan  Har- 
rington ;  or.  He  would  be  a  Gentleman,"  pp.  492, 
i2mo,  cloth,  1 1. 50. 

Reviews. — Harpei^s  Monthly  Magazine,  Vol.  XXII.,  p.  260, 
Jan.,  1861.  Saturday  Review,  Jan.  19,  1861.  The  Spectator^ 
p.  66,  Jan.  19,  1861.  The  Examiner,  p.  183,  March  23,  1861, 
Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  5,  Dec.  12,  1885.  Vanity  Fair,  June  20., 
1886.  Time,  Vol.  II.,  N.s.  (by  Arthur  Symons),  pp.  631-3,  Nov, 
1885. 


xxii 


i862]  George   Meredith 

1862. 

MODERN  LOVE  |  AND  |  POEMS  OF  THE 
ENGLISH  ROADSIDE,  |  WITH  |  POEMS  AND 
BALLADS.  I  By  |  George  Meredith,  |  Author  of 
"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  "The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
I  Feverel,"  etc.  |  London:  |  Chapman  &  Hall,  193, 
Piccadilly.  |  1862.  |  Extra  fcap.  8vo,  pp.  viii.  216. 
Affectionately  inscribed  to  Captain  Maxse,  R.N. 

Contents  ; 

Grandfather  Bridgeman. 

The    Meeting  (originally  appeared   in    Once   a    Week,   Sept.    I, 

i860,  Vol.  III.,  p.  276,  with  an  illustration  by  (Sir)  J.  E. 

Millais). 
Modern  Love. 
Juggling  Jerry  (originally  appeared  in    Once  a   Week,  Sept.   3, 

1859,  Vol.  I.,  pp.   189,   190,  under  the  title  of  "The  Last 

Words  of  Juggling  Jerry,"  with  an  illustration  by  Hablot 

K.  Browne). 
The  Old  Chartist  (originally  appeared  in  Once  a  Week,  Feb.  8, 

1862,    Vol.    VI.,    pp.     1S2-4,    with   an  illustration   by   F. 

Sandys). 
The  Beggar's  Soliloquy  (originally  appeared   in    Once  a    Week, 

March  30,  1861,  Vol.  IV.,  pp.  378,  379,  with  an  illustration 

by  Charles  Keene). 
The    Patriot    Engineer    (originally  appeared   in    O^ice  a    Week, 

Dec.   14,   1861,  Vol.  v.,  pp.   685-7,  with  an  illustration  by 

Charles  Keene). 
Cassandra. 
The  Young  Usurper. 
Margaret's  Bridal-Eve. 
Marian. 
The  Head  of  Bran  (originally  appeared  in  Once  a  Week,  Feb.  4, 

i860,  Vol.  IL,  pp.    151,   132,  with  an  illustration  by  (Sir) 

John  K  Millais). 

xxiii  P 


A   Bibliography  of         [1862 

By  Morning  Twilight. 

Autumn    Even-Song    (originally   appeared    in    Once    a    Weeky 

Dec.  3,  1859,  Vol.  L,  p.  464). 
Unknown  Fair  Faces. 
Phantasy  (originally  appeared  in  Once  a  Week,  Nov,  23,   i86i, 

Vol.  v.,  pp.  601,  602). 
Shemselnihar. 

"  A  Roar  through  the  tall  twin  Elm-Trees." 
"When  I  would  Image." 
"  I  chafe  at  Darkness." 
By  the  Rosanna.     To  F.   M.    {i.e..  Admiral  Maxse)  (originally 

appeared  in   Once  a    Week,    Oct.    19,    1861,    Vol.  V.,    pp. 

460-2). 
Ode  to  the  Spirit  of  Earth  in  Autumn. 
The  Doe  :  A  Fragment  from  "  Wandering  Willie." 

Reviews. —  The  Critic,  p.  487,  May  17,  1862.  *The  Spectator^ 
pp.  580,  581,  May  24,  1862.  The  Athcnceum,  p.  719,  May  31, 
1862.      Westviinster  Review,  Vol.  XXII.,  N.S.,  p.  284,  July,  1862. 

*  This  notice  evoked  the  following  interesting  letter  from  Mr. 
Swinburne,  which  has  never  before  been  reprinted  : — 

The  Spectator y  June  7,  1862,  pp.  632,  633. 
Mr.  George  Meredith's  "  Modern  Love." 
Sir, — I  cannot  resist  asking  the  favour  of  admission  for  my 
protest  against  the  article  on  Mr.  Meredith's  last  volume  of  poems 
in  the  Spectator  of  May  24th.  That  I  personally  have  for  the 
writings,  whether  verse  or  prose,  of  Mr.  Meredith,  a  most  sincere 
and  deep  admiration  is  no  doubt  a  matter  of  infinitely  small 
moment.  I  wish  only,  in  default  of  a  better,  to  appeal  seriously 
on  general  grounds  against  this  sort  of  criticism  as  applied  to 
one  of  the  leaders  of  English  literature.  To  any  fair  attack  Mr. 
Meredith's  books  of  course  lie  as  much  open  as  another  man's; 
indeed,  standing  where  he  does,  the  very  eminence  of  his  post 
makes  him  perhaps  more  liable  than  a  man  of  less  well-earned 
fame  to  the  periodical  slings  and  arrows  of  publicity.  Against 
such  criticism  no  one  would  have  a  right  to  appeal,  whether  for 
his  own  work  or  for  another's.     But  the  writer  of  the  article  in 

xxiv 


i862]  George   Meredith 

question  blinks  at  stating  the  fact  that  he  is  dealing  with  no 
unfledged  pretender.  Any  work  of  a  man  who  has  won  his 
spurs  and  fought  his  way  to  a  foremost  place  among  the  men  of 
his  time,  must  claim  at  least  a  grave  consideration  and  respect. 
It  would  hardly  be  less  absurd,  in  remarking  on  a  poem  by  Mr. 
Meredith,  to  omit  all  reference  to  his  previous  work,  and  treat 
the  present  book  as  if  its  author  had  never  tried  his  hand  at  such 
writing  before,  than  to  criticise  the  Legoide  des  Siecles,  or  (coming 
to  a  nearer  instance)  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  without  taking  into 
account  the  relative  position  of  the  great  English  or  the  greater 
French  poet.  On  such  a  tone  of  criticism  as  this  any  one  who 
may  chance  to  see  or  hear  of  it  has  a  right  to  comment. 

But  even  if  the  case  were  different,  and  the  author  were  now 
at  his  starting-point,  such  a  review  of  such  a  book  is  surely  out 
of  date.  Praise  or  blame  should  be  thoughtful,  serious,  careful, 
when  applied  to  a  work  of  such  subtle  strength,  such  depth  of 
delicate  power,  such  passionate  and  various  beauty,  as  the  leading 
poem  of  Mr.  Meredith's  volume  :  in  some  points,  as  it  seems  to 
me  (and  in  this  opinion  I  know  that  I  have  weightier  judgments 
than  my  own  to  back  me)  a  poem  above  the  aim  and  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  but  its  author,  Mr.  Meredith  is  one  of  the  three  or 
four  poets  now  alive  whose  work,  perfect  or  imperfect,  is  always 
as  noble  in  design  as  it  is  often  faultless  in  result.  The  present 
critic  falls  foul  of  him  for  dealing  with  "a  deep  and  painful  sub- 
ject on  which  he  has  no  conviction  to  express."  There  are 
pulpits  enough  for  all  preachers  in  prose  ;  the  business  of  verse- 
writing  is  hardly  to  express  convictions ;  and  if  some  poetry,  not 
without  merit  of  its  kind,  has  at  times  dealt  in  dogmatic  morality, 
it  is  all  the  worse  and  all  the  weaker  for  that.  As  to  subject,  it 
is  too  much  to  expect  that  all  schools  of  poetry  are  to  be  for  ever 
subordinate  to  the  one  just  now  so  much  in  request  with  us, 
whose  scope  of  sight  is  bounded  by  the  nursery  walls  ;  that  all 
Muses  are  to  bow  down  before  her  who  babbles,  with  lips  yet 
warm  from  their  pristine  pap,  after  the  dangling  delights  of  a 
child's  coral  ;  and  jingles  with  flaccid  fingers  one  knows  not 
whether  a  jester's  or  a  baby's  bells.  We  have  not  too  many 
writers  capable  of  duly  handling  a  subject  worth  the  serious 
interest   of  men.     As   to   execution,    take   almost  any   sonnet   at 

XXV 


A   Bibliography  of         [1862 

random  out  of  this  series,  and  let  any  man  qualified  to  judge  for 
himself  of  metre,  choice  of  expression,  and  splendid  language, 
decide  on  its  claims.  And,  after  all,  the  test  will  be  unfair, 
except  as  regards  metrical  or  pictorial  merit ;  every  section  of 
this  great  progressive'  poem  being  connected  with  the  other  by 
links  of  the  finest  and  most  studied  workmanship.  Take,  for 
example,  that  noble  sonnet  beginning 

"  We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  skies," 

a  more  perfect  piece  of  writing  no  man  alive  has  ever  turned 
out;  witness  these  three  lines,  the  grandest  perhaps  of  the 
book  : 

"  And  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth, 
Our  spirit  grew  as  we  walked  side  by  side  ; 
The  hour  became  her  husband,  and  my  bride  ',  " 

but  in  transcription  it  must  lose  the  colour  and  effect  given  it  by 
its  place  in  the  series  ;  the  grave  and  tender  beauty,  which  makes 
it  at  once  a  bridge  and  a  resting-place  between  the  admirable 
poems  of  passion  it  falls  among.  As  specimens  of  pure  power 
and  depth  of  imagination  at  once  intricate  and  vigorous,  take  the 
two  sonnets  on  a  false  passing  reunion  of  wife  and  husband ;  the 
sonnet  on  the  rose  ;  that  other  beginning  : 

"  I  am  not  of  those  miserable  males 
Who  sniff  at  vice,  and  daring  not  to  snap, 
Do  therefore  hope  for  Heaven." 

And,  again,  that  earlier  one  : 

"  All  other  joys  of  life  he  strove  to  warm." 

Of  the  shorter  poems  which  give  character  to  the  book  I  have 
not  space  to  speak  here  ;  and  as  the  critic  has  omitted  noticing 
the  most  valuable  and  important  (such  as  the  "Beggar's  Soli- 
loquy" and  the  "Old  Chartist,"  equal  to  Beranger  for  com- 
pleteness of  effect  and  exquisite  justice  of  style,  but  noticeable 
for  a  thorough  dramatic  insight,  which  Beranger  missed  through 
his  personal  passions  and  partialities),  there  is  no  present  need 
to  go  into  the  matter.  I  ask  you  to  admit  this  protest  simply 
out  of  justice  to  the  book  in  hand,  believing  as  I  do  that  it 
expresses  the  deliberate  unbiassed  opinion  of  a  sufficient  number 

xxvi 


i862]  George   Meredith 

of  readers  to  warrant  the  insertion  of  it,  and  leaving  to  your 
consideration  rather  their  claims  to  a  fair  hearing  than  those  of 
the  book's  author  to  a  revised  judgment.  A  poet  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  rank  can  no  more  be  profited  by  the  advocacy  of 
his  admirers  than  injured  by  the  rash  and  partial  attack  of  his 
critics. 

A.  C.  SWINBURNE. 

MODERN  LOVE  |  a  Reprint  |  To  which  is  added  | 
The  Sage  Enamoured  and  the  Honest  Lady  |  By  | 
George  Meredith.  |  London  |  Macmillan  &  Co.  | 
and  New  York  |  1892  |  All  rights  reserved.  Fcap. 
8vo,  pp.  viii.  unnumbered  and  i  to  107;  at  foot  of 
verso  of  page  107  :  "  Printed  by  T.  &  A.  Constable, 
Printers  to  Her  Majesty,  |  at  the  Edinburgh  University 
Press."     Bound  in  dark  blue  cloth,  lettered  on  back. 

Contents  : 

The  Promise  of  Disturbance. 

Modern  Love. 

The  Sage  Enamoured  and  the  Honest  Lady. 

'  *  Love  is  Winged  for  Two." 

**Ask,  is  Love  Divine." 

'♦Joy  is  Fleet." 

The  Lesson  of  Grief. 

Dedication   on    page   v.,    "  To  |  Admiral    Maxse  |  in    Constant 
Friendship." 

Also  an  Edition  of  "  Modern  Love,"  with  a  "  Foreword 
by  E.  Cavazzi."  Post  8vo.  Limited  to  four  hundred 
copies.  Published  by  Thomas  B.  Mohser,  Portland, 
Maine,  U.S.A.  1891.  A  large  paper  edition  was 
published  of  above. 


A   Bibliography  of         [1864 


1864. 

EMILIA  IN  ENGLAND  |  By  |  George  Meredith  I 
author  of"  Evan  Harrington  "  "The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel"  |  "The  Shaving  of  Shagpat "  |  In  three 
volumes  |  London:  |  Chapman  &  Hall,  193,  Picca- 
dilly. I  1864.  I  \The  right  of  Translation  is  j'eserved.'\ 
Crown  8vo,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  iv.  306  ;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  iv.  285  ; 
Vol.  III.,  pp.  iv.  338. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1887  and  1889,  under  the  title  of"  Sandra 
Belloni."  Originally  "  Emilia  in  England,"  pp.  vii. 
462. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  they  are 
identical  with  them. 

A  Compressed  Translation. 
Sandra   Belloni :    Roman    de  la   Vie  Anglaise,   de  M. 
George  Meredith.     Par  M.  E.  D.  Forgues.* 

*  It  may  be  interesting  to  note  that  Mr.  Arthur  Symons  has  recently  picked 
up  in  Paris,  on  the  Quai  des  Grands  Augustins,  first  editions  of  Richard  Feverel 
and  E7nilia  m  England — both  of  them  presentation  copies.  The  flyleaf  of  the 
former  has  "  With  the  Author's  compliments,"  and,  below,  "  M.  Buloz,"  not  in 
Mr.  Meredith's  handwriting.  On  the  title-page  of  the  latter  Mr.  Meredith  has 
written  :  "  Monsieur  E.  D.  Forgues — Hommages  de  I'Auteur." 

Revue  des  Deux  Mondes. — Premiere  Partie,  Nov.  15,  1864. 
Seconde  Parti-;,  Dec.  i,  1864.     Derniere  Partie,  Dec.  15,  1864. 

xxviii 


iS64]  George   Meredith 

Reprinted  in  a  volume  as  follows  : — 

Sandra  Belloni :  L'Anneau  D'Amasis ;  La  Famille  Du 
Docteur.  Imitations  de  1' Anglais.  Par  E.  D.  Forgues. 
Paris :  Librairie  de  L.  Hachette  et  Cie.,  Boulevard 
Saint  Germain,  No.  77.  1866.  8vo,  pp.  355,  of 
which  "  Sandra  Belloni  "  occupies  the  first  212  pages. 

Reviews. —  The  Reader  (by  (Dr.)  Richard  Garnett),  April  23, 
1864.  The  Athen(zum,  p.  609,  April  30,  1864.  Saturday  Review, 
p.  660,  May  28,  1864.  Westminster  Review,  p.  253,  July,  1864.  The 
Examiner,  p.  469,  July  23,  1864.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  5,  June  14, 
1886.  Time  (by  Arthur  Symons),  Vol.  III.,  N.S.,  pp.  379,  380, 
March,  1886. 

The  Story  of  Sir  Arnulph  (Poem).  Once  a  Week,  Jan.  23, 
1864,  Vol.  X.,  p.  126. 

(Not  reprinted.) 


XXIX 


A   Bibliography   of         [1865 


1865. 

RHODA  FLEMING.  |  A  Story.  |  By  |  George 
Meredith,  |  author  of  |  "  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel,"  "  Evan  Harrington,"  etc.  etc.  |  In  three 
volumes.  |  London  :  |  Tinsley  Brothers,  Catherine 
Street,  Strand.  |  1865.  |  [All  rights  of  Translation 
and  Reproduction  are  reserved.^  Crown  8vo,  Vol.  I., 
pp.  vi.  331  ;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  vi.  291  ;  Vol.  III.,  pp.  vi. 
256. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1886  and  1890.     Crown  8vo,  pp.  vii.  399. 

These  editions  are  considerably  revised. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

This  work,  with  an  Introductory  Note  of  three  pages,  signed 
"P.  R.,"  is  included  in  the  "Colonial  Edition"  of  "  Petherick's 
Collection  of  Favourite  and  Approved  Authors,"  1889. 

Reviews. —  The  Illustrated  London  News,  p.  307,  Sept.  30,  1865. 
Athenaum,'^.  ^^'^,  Oct.  14,  1865.  Saturday  Review,  p.  489,  Oct.  14, 
1865.  Morning  Post,  p.  2,  Oct.  18,  1865.  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
pp.  842,  843,  Oct.  26,  1865.  Westminster  Review,  Vol.  XXIX., 
N.S.,  p.  285,  Jan.,  1866.  Vanity  Fair,  Jan.  26,  1 886.  Athenceum 
(New  Edition),  pp.  137,  138  (by  W.  E.  Henley),  July  31,  1886. 
Time^  Vol.  IV.,  N.S.,  pp.  248,  249  (by  Arthur  Symons),  Aug., 
1886. 

XXX 


1867]  George   Meredith 


1867. 

*  VITTORIA.  I  By  |  George  Meredith.  |  In  three 
volumes.  |  London:  |  Chapman  &  Hall,  193,  Picca- 
dilly. I  MDCCCLXii.  I  [Legal  Rights  reserved.']  Post  8vo, 
Vol.  I.,  pp.  iv.  317  ;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  iv.  333  ;  Vol.  III., 
pp.  iv.  288.     In  46  chapters. 

This  work  originally  appeared  in  the  Fortniglitly  Review^ 
in  46  chapters,  from  Jan.  15,  1866,  to  Dec.  i,  1866, 
inclusive. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1886  and  1889,  pp.  vii.  500. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

Reviews. — Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  loii,  Jan.  25,  1867.  The 
Saturday  Review,  p.  149,  Feb.  2,  1867.  The  Spectator,  pp.  161,  162, 
Feb.  9,  1867.  The  Athenaum,  p.  248,  Feb.  23,  1867.  Pall  Mall 
Gazette^  p.  5,  June  14,  1886. 


■*  The  references  in  this  work  to  ' '  The  Chief  "  are  to  Mazzini,  and  I  have  seen 
or  heard  it  stated  that  an  Italian  newspaper  had  reprinted  these  references  as  the 
best  estimate  of  their  great  patriot,  but  as  I  have  been  unable  to  verify  this 
statement,  I  should  feel  obliged  to  any  correspondents  who  would  supply  me 
with  information  on  this  subject. 

xxxi 


A   Bibliography  of       [1867-8 

La   Maison  Forestiere   (Critical  Note  on).      The  Fort- 
nightly Review^  Jan.  I,  1867,  pp.  126-8. 
(Not  reprinted.) 

Training    in    Theory    and    Practice.       By    Archibald 
Maclaren     (Critical     Note     on).        The     Fortnightly 
Review,  March,  1867,  pp.  380-2. 
(Not  reprinted.) 

Lines  to  a  Friend  Visiting  America  (Poem).  [These 
lines  were  addressed  to  Mr.  John  Morley.  During 
Mr.  Morley's  absence  Mr.  Meredith  took  charge  of 
The    Fortnightly. '\     The    Fortnightly    Review,     Dec, 

1867,  pp.  727-31- 

(Not  reprinted.) 


1868. 

Saint  Paul  (Poem).     By  Frederic   H.    Myers   (Critical 
Note  on).      The  Fortnightly  Review,  Jan.,   1868,  pp. 

115-7- 

(Not  reprinted.) 

Countess  of  Brownlow's  Reminiscences  (Critical  Note 

on).      The    Fortnightly   Review,    Feb.    i,    1868,    pp. 

229-32. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

Mr.  Robert  Lytton's  Poems  (Signed  Article).     The 
Fortnightly  Review,  June,  1868,  pp.  658-72. 
(Not  reprinted.) 
xxxii 


1869-70]       George   Meredith 


1869. 

Homer's  Iliad  in  English  Rhymed  Verse.  By  Charles 
Merivale  (Critical  Note  on).  The  Fortnightly  Review^ 
May,  1869,  pp.  629-30. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

Extracts  from  a  Letter,  dated  June  25,  1869,  to  John 
Holden,  on  Edgar  Poe's  "  Raven."  Messrs.  Sotheby, 
Wilkinson,  &  Hodge's  Sale  Catalogue  of  Autograph 
Letters,  Lot  145,  p.  22,  Nov.  27,  1889. 

1870. 

In  the  Woods  (Poem  in  nine  stanzas).  The  Fortnightly 
Review^  Aug.,  1870,  pp.  179-83. 

Portions  of  this  poem  have  been  altered  and  reprinted.  See 
"Whimper  of  Sympathy,"  pp.  63,  64,  Ballads  and  Poems,  1887  ; 
"Woodland  Peace,"  pp.  52-4,  and  "Dirge  in  Woods,"  pp.  64, 
65,  of  A  Reading  of  Earth,  1888.     Also  in  later  editions. 


xxxui 


A   Bibliography   of         C1871 
1871. 

THE  ADVENTURES  |  OF  |  HARRY  RICH- 
MOND. I  By  I  George  Meredith.  |  In  three 
vols.  I  London:  |  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  15,  Water- 
loo Place.  I  187 1.  I  [All rights  reserved.']  Crown  Svo, 
Vol.  I.,  pp.  iv.  318,  and  i  unnumbered;  Vol.  II.,  pp. 
iv.  325;  Vol.  HI.,  pp.  iv.  298,  and  i  unnumbered. 
In  60  chapters. 

The  second  edition,  identical  with  the  above,  was  also  issued 
in  1871. 

This  work  originally  appeared  in  60  chapters,  in  Cornhill,  with 
15  initial  and  15  full-page  illustrations  by  Mr.  George  Du  Maurier, 
from  Sept.  1870  to  Nov.  1871,  inclusive. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1887  and  1889,  pp.  544. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

A  Colonial  Edition,  identical  with  the  above,  was  printed  for 
Messrs.  G.  Robertson  &  Co.  in  1887. 

Reviews. — Athenceiim^  p.  590,  Nov.  4,  1871.  Daily  News^ 
Nov.  6,  1 87 1.  The  Echo,  ^o\.  10,  1871.  The  Examiner,  p.  11 22, 
Nov,  II,  1 87 1.  The  Illustrated  London  News,  p.  466,  Nov.  11, 
1 87 1.  The  Daily  Telegraph,  Nov.  20,  187 1.  The  Graphic,  Nov.  25, 
1S71.  The  Morning  Post,  Dec.  2,  187 1.  Westminster  Review y 
Vol.  XLI.,  N.S.,  p.  274,  Jan.,  1872.  The  Spectator,  pp.  79,  80, 
Jan.  20,  1872.  The  Australasian,  Feb.  10,  1872.  Vanity  Fair, 
March  16,  1872.  Blackiuood's  Magazitie,  p.  755,  June,  1872.  Pall 
Mall  Gazette,  p.  5,  Jan.  14,  1886.  Vanity  Fair,  June  20,  1886. 
TiT?ie,  Vol.  III.,  N.S.,  pp.  247,  248  (by  Arthur  Symons),  Feb., 
1886. 


1876]  George   Meredith 


1876. 

BEAUCHAMP'S  CAREER.  |  By  George  Meredith,  | 
author  of  "  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  "  The  Ordeal  of 
Richard  |  Feverel,"  etc.,  etc.  |  In  three  volumes.  | 
London:  |  Chapman  &  Hall,  193,  Piccadilly.  |  1876.  | 
[A/l  rights  reserved.']  Crown  8vo,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  vii. 
312;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  vii.  318;  Vol.  III.,  pp.  vii.  339. 
In  56  chapters. 

This  work  originally  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  Review,  in  56 
chapters,  from  Aug.  1874  to  Dec.  1875,  inclusive. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1886  and  1889,  pp.  vii.  506. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

This  work,  with  an  Introductory  Note  of  three  pages,  signed 
"P.  R.,"  is  included  in  the  "Colonial  Edition"  of  "  Petherick's 
Collection  of  Favourite  and  Approved  Authors."     1889. 

This  work  is  also  included  in  Baron  Tauchnitz's  "Collection 
of  British  Authors."     2  Vols.,  p.  672.     1866. 

Reviews. — Daily  Nexvs,  Dec.  22,  1875.  Athenmim,  p.  19,  Jan.  i, 
1876.  The  Standard,  Jan.  4,  1876.  The  Exa?ni7ter,  p.  45,  by 
G.  B.  S.  [i.e.,  Geo.  Barnett  Smith),  Jan.  8,  1876.  The  limes,  p.  4, 
Jan.  8,  1876.  The  Graphic,  Jan.  8,  1876.  The  Academy,  p.  51,  by 
Dr.  R.  F.  Littledale,  Jan.  15,  1876.  Pall  iV all  Gazette,  pp.  11,  12, 
Feb.  5,  1876.  Canadian  Monthly,  pp.  341-343,  May,  1876. 
Saturday  Reviezu,  May  13,  1876.  Cope's  Tobacco  Plant  (by  James 
Thomson),  June,  1876.  The  Secularist  (by  James  Thomson), 
1876.  Time,  Vol.  IV.,  n.s.,  pp.  508,  509  (by  Arthur  Symons), 
Oct.,  1886. 

XXXV 


A   Bibliography  of         [1879 
1879. 

THE  EGOIST  |  A  Comedy  in  Narrative  |  By  | 
George  Meredith  |  In  three  volumes.  |  London  j 
C.  Kegan  Paul  &  Co.,  i,  Paternoster  Square  |  1879  I 
Crown  8vo,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  v.  337 ;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  iv.  320; 
Vol.  III.,  pp.  iv.  353. 

Second  Edition,  with  a  Frontispiece  by  H.  M.  P[aget], 
was  issued,  in  one  Volume,  by  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul 
&  Co.  1880.     Crown  8vo,  pp.  505. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1886  and  1890,  pp.  vii.  505. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  are  identical 
with  them. 

Unauthorised  Editions. 

No.  90  in  "  Harper's  Franklin  Square  Library."     15  cents. 
No.  1 150  in  George  Munro's  (N.Y.)  "  Seaside  Library,"  2  Vols., 
pp.  458,  Dec.  26,  18S8. 

Reviews. — Athe>iLeuf?i,  p.  555  (by  W.  E.  Henley),  Nov.  i, 
1879.  The  Examiner^  p.  1409,  Nov.  i,  1879.  ^^^  Spectator ^ 
pp.  1383,  1384,  Nov.  I,  1879.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  lO  (by  W. 
E.  Henley),  Nov.  3,  1879.  Daily  News,  p.  6,  Nov.  12,  1879. 
Satm-day  Review,  p.  607,  Nov.  15,  1879.  The  Academy,  p.  369  (by 
W.  E.  Henley),  Nov.  22,  1879.  Copes  lobacco  Plant  (by  James 
Thomson),  Jan.,  1880.  NcW  Quarterly  Magazine,  pp.  228-232, 
Jan.,  1880.  British  Quarterly  (by  Henry  Allon,  D.D.),  p.  232, 
Jan.,  1880.  Westminster  Review,  Vol.  LVH.,  N.s.,  p.  287,  Jan., 
lb8o.  The  Teacher,  p.  130  (by  W.  E.  Henley),  Feb.  14,  1880. 
Blackwood^s  Magazine,  Vol.  CXXVHI.,  pp.  401-404,  Sept.,  18S0. 
Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  5,  May  7,  1887.  Twie,  Vol.  IV.,  N.s.,  p.  755 
(by  Arthur  Symons),  Dec,  18S6. 

xxxvi 


i88o]  George   Meredith 

1880. 

THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIANS  |  A  Study  in  a 
WELL-KNOWN  Story.  |  (Enlarged  from  The  Fort- 
nightly Review.^  \  By  |  George  Meredith.  |  In  two 
volumes.  |  London:  |  Chapman  &  Hall,  Limited,  193, 
Piccadilly.  1880.  {All  Rights  Reserved.)  Crown  8vo, 
Vol.  I.,  pp.  iv.  unnumbered  and  199  ;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  iv. 
unnumbered  and  181.     In  17  chapters. 

Many  copies  of  this  edition  were  bound  up  in  one  volume,  with 
1 88 1  substituted  for  1880. 

This  story  originally  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  Review,  in 
15  chapters,  from  Oct.  1880  to  Feb.  1881,  inclusive. 

Another  Edition  was  issued  by  Messrs.  Ward,  Lock,  & 
Co.,  in  the  "Select  Authors"  Series,  at  2s.  (1881). 
One  Vol.  crown  8vo,  pictorial  boards,  pp.  309. 

This  work  is  included  in  Baron  Tauchnitz's  "Collection  of 
British  Authors,"  pp.  280,  1881. 

"  The  Tragic  Comedians  "  tells  the  story  of  an  episode  in  the 
life  of  Ferdinand  Lassalle — the  love-episode  which  led  to  his 
tragic  death.  All  the  characters  are  real  people,  only  the  names 
being  changed.  Mr.  Meredith's  main  authority  was  the  book 
written  by  the  heroine  of  his  narrative,  Helene  von  Racowitza 
{nde  Helene  von  Donniges),  entitled  "  Meine  Beziehungen  zu 
Ferdinand  Lassalle."  The  book  was  published  at  Breslau,  in 
1879,  by  Schottlaender  (pp.  188).  See  also  for  an  account  of 
the  situation  from  a  more  independent  standpoint,  "  Lassalle's 
Tod.  Im  Anschluss  an  die  memoriess  der  Helene  von  Raco- 
witza :  Meine  Beziehungen  zu  Ferdinand  Lassalle  zur  Erganzung 
derselben."     Chemnitz:  Ernest  Schnieizner.     1880. 

New  Edition,  revised  and  corrected  by  the  Author,  with 
an    Introductory    Note    on    Ferdinand    Lassalle    by 

xxxvii 


A   Bibliography   of         [isso 

Clement  Shorter.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  258,  with  auto- 
graph portrait  in  Photogravure.  Green  cloth.  Ward, 
Lock,  Bowden,  &  Co. 

Subjoined    are    some    of    the    principal    characters    and    their 
English  substitutes. 

Real  Nafnes.  Characters  in  the  Novel. 

Ferdinand  Lassalle     Sigismund  Alvan. 


Helene  von  Donniges 
Yanko  von  Racowitza 

Baron  Korff 

Countess  von  Hatzfeldt 
Rustow 


Clotilde  von  Riidiger. 

Marko  Romaris. 

Count  Kollin. 

Lucie  Baroness  von  Crefeldt. 

Tresten. 


Dr.  Haenle    Dr.  Storchel. 

The  following  articles  also  throw  considerable  light  on  the 
characters  in  this  book  : — 

Ferdinand  Lassalle  :  The  German  Social  Democrat.  By 
J.  M.  Ludlow.  The  Fortnightly  Review,  A^T\\  1869, 
PP-  419-453- 

A  Son  of  the  New  Time.  Temple  Bar,  March,  1881, 
pp.  314-329. 

An  Episode  in  the  Life  of  Ferdinand  Lassalle  (with  a 
portrait).  By  M.  Walters.  The  Universal  Review, 
Aug.  15,  1890,  pp.  521-534. 

Reviews. — The  Athenceum,  Jan.  8,  18S1.  Daily  News,  p.  3, 
Jan.  27,  1 88 1.  Scotsniati,  p.  6,  Jan.  28,  1 88 1.  Truth,  Jan.  28, 
1881.  The  World,  Feb.  7,  1881.  Westminster  Review,  Vol.  LIX., 
N.S.,  p.  612,  April,  1881.     Melbourne  Argus,  May  14,  1881. 

Letter  to  James  Thomson  ("  B.V.") 

See  the  "  Life  of  James  Thomson,"  by  H.  S.  Salt,  pp. 

153;  154- 

xxxviii 


i883]  George  Meredith 


1883. 

POEMS    AND     LYRICS    |    OF    |   THE    JOY    OF 
EARTH    I   By   |   George    Meredith   |    London    | 
Macmillan  &  Co.  |   1883.     Extra  fcap.  8vo,  pp.  ix. 
181,  and  a  Note  on  unnumbered  page  at  end 
Inscribed  to  James  Cotter  Morison. 

Antistans  mihi  milihtis  irecentis. 

Contents. 

The  Woods  of  Westermain. 

A  Ballad  of  Past  Meridian  (originally  appeared  in  The 
Fortnightly  Revieiv,  June,  1 876,  p.  829). 

The  Day  of  the  Daughter  of  Hades. 

The  Lark  Ascending  (originally  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly 
Revieiv,  May,  1 88 1,  pp.  588-591). 

Phoebus  with  Admetus  (originally  appeared  in  MacmillarCs 
Magazme,  Dec,  18S0,  Vol.  XLIII,,  pp.  122-4). 

Melampus. 

Love  in  the  Valley  (originally  appeared  in  Macmillan's 
Magazme,  Oct.,  1 878,  Vol.  LI.,  pp.  445-51.  Reprinted 
in  "Patchwork,"  by  Mr.  Frederick  Locker,  1879, 
pp.  142-5.  Mr.  Locker  adds  the  following  note : — 
"We  can  picture  to  ourselves  the  boy  poet  of  these 
charming  lines,  like  Keats,  hardly  out  of  his  teens"). 

The  Three  Singers  to  Young  Blood. 

The  Orchard  and  the  Heath  (originally  appeared  in  Mac- 
miliar^ s  Magazhte,  Feb.,  1868,  pp.  362-6). 

Martin's  Puzzle  (originally  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly 
Review,  June,  1865,  pp.  239-41). 

xxxix  Q 


A  Bibliography  of         [1883 

Earth  and  Man. 

A  Ballad  of  Fair  Ladies  in  Revolt   (originally  appeared  in 
The  Fortnightly  Review^  Aug.,  1876,  pp.  232-41). 

Sonnets. 

Lucifer  in  Starlight. 

The  Star  Sirus. 

Sense  and  Spirit. 

Earth's  Secret. 

Tu    c   •  %    <■  ci,  1  (  originally  appeared  in 

The  Spirit  of  Shakespeare,  I        %,,      \,  , 

^.        ,  -{         The  AtheiKxiim, 

continued.  I   ^  ,  00  o 

I  Feb.  10,  1883,  p.  184. 

Internal  Harmony. 

Grace  and  Love. 

Appreciation. 

The  Discipline  of  Wisdom, 

The  State  of  Age. 

Progress. 

The  World's  Advance. 

A  Certain  People. 

The  Garden  of  Epicurus. 

A  Later  Alexandrian. 

An  Orson  of  the  Muse. 

The  Point  of  Taste. 

Camelus  Saltat,  continued. 

To  J.  M.  (John  Morley),  originally  appeared  in  The 
Fortnightly  Review,  June,  1867,  p.  696. 

To  a  Friend  Recently  Lost,  T.  T.  (Tom  Taylor),  origi- 
nally appeared  in  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  Oct.,  1880. 

My  Theme,  continued. 

Time  and  Sentiment  (originally  appeared  in  The  Fort- 
nightly Review,  April,  1870,  p.  432,  under  the  title  of 
"  A  Mark  in  Time  "). 

Reviews. —  The  limes,  June  11,  1883.  St.  Jameses  Gazette , 
PP-  6,  7,  June  25,  1883.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  June  29,  1883.  The 
Academy,  by  Mark  Pattison,  pp.  37,  38,  July  21,  1883  (reprinted 
in  The  Literary  News  (U.S.A.),  pp.  318,  319,  Oct.,  1883).     The 

xl 


I 


1883]  George   Meredith 

Scotsman,  July  21,  1883.  Manchester  Guardian,  July  23,  1883. 
AthencEtwi,  pp.  103-5  (by  Theodore  Watts),  July  28,  1883.  Merry 
England  (by  Mrs.  Alice  Meynell),  Aug.,  1^83.  Literary  World, 
Aug.  3,  1883.  Glasgow  Herald,  Aug.  7,  1883.  See  also  letter 
headed  "A  Voyage  round  the  World"  (by  Moncure  D.  Conway), 
Glasgow  Herald,  Aug.  14,  1883.  The  Contemporary  Review,  by 
W.  P.  Ker,  Sept.,  1883.  Melbourne  Aj-gus,  Sept.  15,  1883. 
Fortnightly  Review,  by  W.  L.  Courtney,  pp.  717,  718,  Nov.,  1883. 
Daily  News,  Dec.  4,  1883.  Literary  World  (Boston,  U.S.A.), 
p.  454,  Dec.  15,  1883.  Critic  (U.S.A.),  Dec.  29,  1883.  Annual 
Register,  1883. 


sU 


A   Bibliography  of         [1885 


1885. 

DIANA  OF  THE  CROSSWAYS  |  A  Novel  |  By  | 
George  Meredith  |  Considerably  enlarged  from  "  The 
ForUiightly  Review "  |  In  Three  Volumes  |  London : 
Chapman  and  Hall  |  Limited  |  1885  |  \All  Rights  re- 
served^ Crown  8vo.  Vol.  I.,  pp.  viii.  344 ;  Vol.  II., 
pp.  vi.  335  ;  Vol.  III.,  pp.  vi.  330.  In  43  chapters. 
Inscribed  to  Frederick  Pollock. 

Three  editions  in  this  form  were  exhausted  in  1885. 

Twenty-six  chapters  of  this  work  (down  to  chap.  8,  Vol.  III.) 
originally  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  Review^  from  June  to 
December,  1884,  inclusive. 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  in  the  Collected 
Editions  of  1885  ^"^^  1889,  pp.  vi.  348. 

The  Author's  American  Copyright  Editions  of  this  work  were 
issued  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  simultaneously  with 
the  first  and  second  English  Collected  Editions,  and  they  are 
identical  with  them. 

A  Colonial  Edition,  identical  with  the  above,  was  printed 
for  Messrs.  E.  A.  Petherick  &  Co.,  in  1887. 

Unauthorised  Editions. 

No.  468  in  *'  Harper's  Franklin  Square  Library."  Price  20 
cents. 

No.  350  in  George  Munro's  (N.Y.)  "  Seaside  Library,"  p.  106, 
i2mo.     10  cents. 

xlii 


i885]  George   Meredith 

This  Edition  was  obviously  reprinted  from  The  Fortnightly 
RcvirM ;  it  is  consequently  only  a  fragment  (down  to  chap.  2i), 
although  no  intimation  to  the  effect  appears.  The  Author's 
concluding  words  of  reference  to  an  "extended  chronicle"  being 
studiously  omitted. 

A  Burlesque  (by  Rudolph  C.  Lehmann)  of  this  work, 
under  the  title  of  "  Joanna  of  the  Cross  Ways  "  (by 
George  Verimyth,  author  of  Richard's  Several 
Editions^  The  Aphorist,  Shampoo's  Shaving-Pot), 
appeared  as  No.  3  of  "  Mr.  Punch's  Prize  Novels," 
with  an  illustration  by  E.  T.  R.  Punchy  Oct.  18, 
1890,  pp.  191,  192. 

Reviews. —  The  Gtiardian,  Feb.  25,  1885.  The  Academy,  p.  147, 
by  James  Ashcroft  Noble,  Feb.  28,  1885.  Court  Circular,  Mar.  2, 
1885.  Vanity  Fair,  Mar.  2,  1885.  Daily  News  (Leader),  Mar.  10, 
1885.  Whitehall  Review,  Mar.  12,  1885.  Athenaum,  pp.  339,  340 
(by  W.  E.  Henley),  Mar.  14,  1S85.  The  Graphic,  Mar.  14,  1885. 
St.  James's  Gazette,  Mar.  16,  1885.  Saturday  Review,  pp.  389,  390 
(by  Cosmo  Monkhouse),  Mar.  21,  1S85.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  4, 
Mar.  28,  1885.  Illustrated  London  N'lWS,Mzx.  22,,  1885.  Scots?7ian, 
p.  5,  Mar.  30,  1885.  The  Literary  World,  pp.  322,  323,  April  3, 
1885.  Glasgow  Herald,  p.  6,  April  9,  1885.  The  Spectator,  pp.  517, 
518,  April  18,  1885.  Truth,  April  23,  1885.  The  Titnes,  June  I, 
18S5.  Standard,  ]\xnQ  2,  i2,2>-j.  Literary  World  {'Boston,  \5.S. A.), 
July  25,  1^85. 

A  Letter  to  the  Queen  on  Lord  Cranworth's  Marriage 
and    Divorce    Bill.      By    the    Hon.    Mrs.    Norton. 

"  Only  a  woman's  hair." 

London :    Longman,    Brown,    Green    &    Longmans. 
1855.     Demy  8vo,  pp.  155. 

Mr.  Le  Gallienne  writes  me — 

xliii 


A   Bibliography  of       [1885-6 

*'I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  authoritative  warrant  for  the 
inclusion  of  Mrs.  Norton's  '  Letter '  among  Meredithiana,  but  the 
gossip  which  identifies  her  with  Diana  is,  of  course,  sufficiently 
general  to  make  a  conjectural  inclusion  imperative. 

"That  the  gossip  is  well  founded  a  very  cursory  perusal  of  the 
letter  puts  quite  beyond  doubt,  the  circumstances  are  too  nearly 
parallel  to  admit  of  hesitation. 

"  If  it  really  be  so,  a  very  interesting  artistic  comparison  might 
be  made  between  this  original  Diana  and  her  of  the  Crossways. 
Brilliant  as  the  letter  is,  it  suffers  from  a  hysterical  rhetoric  that 
differentiates  them  to  a  degree  which  bears  triumphant  witness 
to  Meredith's  creative  power." 


On  the  Danger  of  War  (Sonnet). 

May  I,  1885,  p.  3. 

(Not  reprinted.) 


Pall  Mall  Gazelle, 


1886. 

A  Pause  in   the   Strife  (Pohtical  Article).      Pall  Mall 
Gazette,  July  9,  1886. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

Concessions  to  the  Celt  (Essay).      Fortnightly  Review, 
Oct.,  1886,  pp.  448-51. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

To   Cardinal   Manning   (Sonnet).      Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
Nov.  5,  1886. 

(Not  reprinted.) 


xliv 


188;]  George   Meredith 


1887. 

BALLADS  AND  POEMS  |  OF  |  TRAGIC  LIFE  | 
By  I  George  Meredith  |  London  |  Macmillan 
and  Co.  |  And  New  York  |  1887  |  [All  rights  re- 
served]. Extra  fcap.  8vo,  pp.  vi.  unnumbered  and 
160. 

This    work    was    also    issued    by    Messrs.    Roberts    Brothers, 
Boston,  in  1887. 

Contents  : 

The  Two  Masks. 

Archduchess  Anne. 

The    Song   of  Theodolinda    (originally   appeared   in 

The  Co7'nhill  Magazine,  Sept.  1872,  pp.  308-12). 

A    Preaching    from    a    Spanish    Ballad    (originally 

,  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  Review,  Kyxg.^  1886). 

The   Young   Princess    (originally   appeared    in    The 

English  Illustrated  Magazine,  Dec,    1886,  pp. 

184-90). 
King  Harald's  Trance. 
"Whimper  of  Sympathy  (originally  appeared  in   The 

Fortnightly  Review,  Aug.,  1870,  as  part  of  "In 

the  Woods  "). 
Young  Reynard. 
Manfred. 
Hernani. 
The  Nuptials  of  Attila  (originally  appeared  in   The 

New  Quarterly  Alagazine,  ]3.n.,  1879,  pp.  47-62). 
Aneurin's   Harp   (originally  appeared   in    The  Fort- 
nightly Review,  Sept.,  1871,  pp.  255-9). 
xlv 


A   Bibliography  of  [1887 

France,  December,  1870  (originally  appeared  in  The 
Forttiightly  Review,  Jan.,  187 1,  pp.  86-94). 

Men  and  Man. 

The  Last  Contention. 

Periander. 

Solon. 

Bellerophon. 

Phaethon  (originally  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly 
Review^  Sept.,  1S67,  pp.  293-5). 

Notes. 

Reviews. — Pall  Mall  Gazette,  p.  5,  May  26,  1887.  The 
Athenmim,  p.  759  (by  W.  E.  Henley),  June  ii,  1887.  The 
Academy,  p.  406,  by  J.  M.  Gray,  June  11,  1887.  The  Saturday 
Review,  p.  851  (by  W.  E.  Henley),  June  ii,  1887.  The  Curio 
(U.S.A.),  by  Stuart  Merrill,  p.  267,  Jan.  and  Feb.,  1888.  The 
Critic  (U.S.A.),  p.  242,  Nov.  17,  1888.  Progress  (by  G.  W.  Foote), 
pp.  218-21,  July,  1S87. 

Letter  on  the  Ambleside  Railway.  Pall  Mall  Gazette^ 
Feb.  25,  1887,  P-  4- 

(Not  reprinted.) 

Mr.  George  Meredith's  Contribution  under  the  head  of 
"  Fine  Passages  in  Prose  and  Verse  Selected  by  Living 
Men  of  Letters."  The  Fortnightly  Review^  Aug., 
1887,  pp.  310-13. 

"The  24th  ///a^  contains  the  highest  reaches  in  poetry." 

"In  Modern  English  Verse  I  would  cite  for  excellence  Keats' 
Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn,  and  Ode  to  Atitumu ;  Tennyson's  CEnone ; 
the  Kubla  Khan  of  Coleridge." 

"In  Modern  Prose  the  description  of  Rachel,  under  title  of 
'Vashti,'  in  Villette,  by  Charlotte  Bronte,  chapter  23rd. 

"In  Poetry,  Mr.  Meredith  gives  the  whole  of  the  second  scene 
in  the  fourth  act  of  Shakespeare's  Henry  VIIIP 

xlvi 


i887]  George   Meredith 

"Further,  Mr.  Meredith  gives  the  passage  from  Virgil's  ALneid^ 
Book  iv.,  knovra  as  Dido's  Lament." 

"  In  Prose  Mr.  Meredith  gives  Hamlet's  Speech  to  the  Players, 
and  also  the  passage  from  Villette  in  which  Charlotte  Bronte 
describes  the  great  French  actress,  Rachel." 

"Further,  Mr.  George  Meredith  gives  the  passage  in  the 
Memoires  of  St.  Simon  which  describes  the  character  of  the 
Regent  Orleans." 

To    Children :     For    Tyrants    (Poem).       The   English 
Illustrated  Magazine^  Dec,  1887,  pp.  184-6. 
(Not  reprinted.) 


xlvii 


A   Bibliography   of         [isss 


1888. 

A  READING  OF  EARTH  |  By  |  George  Mere- 
dith I  London  |  Macmillan  and  Co.  |  and  New 
York  I  1888  I  [All  rights  reserved.'^  Extra  fcap. 
8vo,  pp.  vi.  136. 

Contents : 
Seed-Time. 
Hard  Winter. 
The  South-Western. 
The   Thrush    in    February   (originally   appeared    in 

Mac77iillan^ s  Magazine,  Aug.,  1885,  pp.  265-71). 
The  Appeasement  of  Demeter  (originally  appeared 

in  Macmillan^  Magazine,  Sept.,  1887,  Vol.  LVI., 

PP-  374-7)- 

Earth  and  a  Wedded  Woman. 

Mother  to  Babe  (originally  appeared  in  The  English 
Illustrated  Alagazine,  Oct.,  1886,  p.  26,  with  an 
illustration  by  the  Poet's  son,  Mr.  W.  Maxse 
Meredith). 

Woodland  Peace  (originally  appeared  in  The  Fort- 
nightly Review,  Aug.,  1 870,  as  part  of  "In  the 
Woods  "). 

The  Question  Whither. 

Outer  and  Inner. 

Nature  and  Life. 

Dirge  in  Woods  (originally  appeared  in  The  Fort- 
nightly Review,  Aug.,  1870,  as  part  of  "In  the 
Woods  "). 

A  Faith  on  Trial. 

Change  in  Recurrence. 

xlviii 


i888]  George   Meredith 

Hymn  to  Colour. 

Meditation  under  Stars. 

Woodman  and  Echo. 

The  Wisdom  of  Eld. 

Earth's  Preference. 

Society. 

Winter  Heavens. 

Epitaphs. 

M.  M.  (Mrs.   Meredith.     Mrs.  Meredith   died  Sept. 

17,  1885.) 
The    Lady   C.    M.    (Lady   Caroline    Maxse.       Lady 

Caroline  died  Jan.,  1886.) 
J.  C.  M.  (James  Cotter  Morison.     Mr.  Morison  died 

Feb.  26,    1 888.      Mr.   Meredith   and  Mr.  John 

Morley  were  Mr.  Morison's  executors.) 
Islet  the  Dachs. 
Gordon  of  Khartoum. 
The  Emperor  Frederick  of  our  Time. 
The  Year's  Sheddings. 

Reviews. 

By  Mr.  Meredith's  special  request  no  copies  of  this  work  were 
sent  out  for  review  ;  I  have,  however,  met  with  the  four  following 
notices  : — 

The  Scots  Observer,  pp.  274,  275,  Jan.  26,  18S9.  Manchester 
Guardian,  Feb.  4,  1889.  The  Scottish  Art  Review,  pp.  263-5,  by 
William  Sharp,  Feb.  4,  1889.  National  Reformer  (by  G.  W. 
Foote),  Feb.  24,  1889. 

A  Stave  of  Roving  Tim  (Poem).      The  Reflector,  Feb.  5, 
1888,  pp.  119,  120. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

On  this  subject  Mr.  Charles  Strachey  kindly  sends  me 
the  following  very  interesting  note : — 

xlix 


A   Bibliography  of         [i 

The  Reflector,  a  weekly  paper  edited  by  Mr.  J.  K.  Stephen, 
which  began  and  ended  a  not  inglorious  career  in  the  earlier  half 
of  1888,  contains  in  its  advertisement  columns  (Jan.  29,  p.  112), 
the  following  announcement : — 

"The  gentleman  who  recently  asked  a  younger  man  what 
the  dickens  he  expected  to  come  to  if  he  started  in  life  as  a 
Tory,  is  referred  to  the  precedent  of  Mr.  Gladstone." 

That  "The  gentleman"  and  the  "younger  man"  were  Mr. 
Meredith  and  the  editor  of  The  Reflector  respectively,  appears 
from  the  next  issue  of  the  paper  (Feb.  5,  p.  119),  which  contains 
a  poem  of  eight  stanzas  by  Mr.  Meredith,  called  "A  Stave  of 
Roving  Tim,"  prefaced  by  the  following  characteristic  letter. 
The  reference  to  "the  triolets  of  the  French  piano,"  is  an  allusion 
to  the  large  number  of  poems  in  triolet  form  which  had  appeared 
in  The  Reflector. 

"Sir, — The  senior  (see  your  Advertisement  columns)  who 
met  that  young  Joseph  Hofmann  of  politics,  with  the  question  as 
to  the  future  of  the  youthful  Tory,  is  impressed  by  The  Rc/lcctor's 
repartee,  in  which  he  desires  to  find  a  very  hopeful  promise, 
that  may  presently  dispel  strange  images  of  the  prodigy  growing 
onionly,  and  showing  a  seedy  head  when  one  appears.  Mean- 
while, he  sends  you  a  lyric  out  of  many  addressed  encouragingly 
to  certain  tramps,  who  are  friends  of  his,  for  the  purpose  ot 
driving  a  breath  of  the  country  through  your  pages,  though  he 
has  no  design  of  competing  with  the  exquisite  twitter  of  the 
triolets  of  the  French  piano  which  accompanied  your  birth,  and 

bids  fair  to  sound  your  funeral  notes. Yours,  &c., 

"George  Meredith." 

The  Pilgrim's  Scrip :    or,  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  George 
Meredith.      With   Selections    from    his   Poetry,   and 
an  Introduction.     Boston  (U.S.A.) :  Roberts  Bros. 
1888. 

This  volume  has  a  portrait  and  an  introduction  more  or  less 
personal,  of  50  pages  by  Mrs.  Gilman. 

1 


I888-90]        George   Meredith 

Reviews. —  The  Bi-itish   Weekly,  p.  187,  Jan.    18,   1889.     Scots 
Obsei-ve?;  p.  245,  July  20,  1889. 


1889. 

Mr.  Meredith's  Opinion  of  Jas.  Thomson  ("B.  V.") 
See  "  The  Life  of  James  Thomson,"  by  H.  S.  Salt, 
pp.  179,  180. 

"  On  Hearing  the  News  from  Venice  "  (Sonnet  on  the 
Death  of  Robert  Browning).  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
Dec.  14,  1889,  p.  I.  See  also  Mr.  W.  Sharp's  "  Life 
of  Browning,"  pp.  197,  198. 

A  facsimile  of  this  Sonnet  was  given  in  the  Fall  Mall  Budget, 
Dec.  19,  1889,  p.  1623. 

(Not  reprinted.) 

1890. 

The  Art  of  Authorship :  Methods  of  Work,  and  Advice 
to  Young  Beginners.  Personally  Contributed  by 
leading  Authors  of  the  Day.  Compiled  and  Edited 
by  George  Bainton. 

Contribution  by  Mr.  Meredith,  pp.  129-32. 

Letters  on  above  Subject.  The  Author,  June  16,  1890. 
Vol.  I.,  No.  2,  p.  45. 

The  Riddle  for  Men  (Poem).      77!^  Paternoster  Review, 

Nov.,  1890,  No.  2,  Vol.  I.,  p.  loi. 

(Not  reprinted.) 
li 


A   Bibliography   of  [1891 


1891. 

ONE  OF  OUR  CONQUERORS  |  By  |  George 
Meredith  |  In  three  volumes  |  London  :  Chapman 
and  Hall,  Limited.  |  1891  |  [All  rights  reservedly. 
Crown  8vo.  Vol.  I.,  pp.  iv.,  unnumbered,  and  i  to 
302  ;  Vol.  IL,  pp.  iv.,  numbered,  and  i  to  320;  Vol. 
IIL,  pp.  iv.,  numbered,  and  i  to  307  ;  verso  blank. 
At  the  foot  of  the  last  page  of  each  volume  :  "  Printed 
by  William  Clowes  and  Sons,  Limited,  London  and 
Beccles."  Chapters,  Vol.  L,  15;  Vol.  II.,  13;  Vol. 
III.,  14.  In  all  52,  numbered  separately.  Bound  in 
blue  cloth,  lettered  on  back. 

Originally  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  Review ,  The  Australasian, 
and  the  Sunday  Edition  of  The  Sun  (New  York)  simultaneously, 
from  Oct.,  1890, 

Reprinted  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  in  the  Collected 
Editions,  1892,  pp.  vi.  and  1  to  414. 


lii 


i892]  George  Meredith 


1892. 

JUMP  TO  GLORY  JANE.  |  By  George  Meredith.  | 
Edited  and  arranged  |  by  Harry  Quilter.  | 

With  forty-  c  vented, 

four  de-  'w  drawn,  and 

signs  in-  Q  written 

By  Laurence  Housman.  |  Swan,  Sonnenschein  & 
Co.  I  Paternoster  Square,  |  London.  |  1892.  Crown 
8vo,  pp.  28  numbered,  and  i  to  36,  illustration  facing 
last  page.  Bound  in  parchment,  lettered  on  side 
(with  design)  and  back.  Dedicated  by  Harry  Quilter  : 
"To  the  Right  Hon^'"-  John  Morley,  Secretary  of 
State  for  Ireland." 

Note  on  Page  2. 

Th's  edition  is  limited  to  an  issue  of  1000  copies  (250  of  which  have 
been  ordered  by  Messrs.  Macmillan  and  Co.  for  the  American 
market),  and  a  special  issue  of  100  copies  on  Van  Gelder paper,  bound 
in  vellum  and  gold. 

Originally  appeared  in  The  Universal  Review,  Oct.,  1889,  pp. 
240-52. 


liii 


A   Bibliography  of       [1892-4 

POEMS  I  THE  EMPTY  PURSE  |  With  Odes  to 
THE  Comic  Spirit  |  To  Youth  in  Memory  |  and 
Verses  |  By  |  George  Meredith  |  London  |  Mac- 
millan  and  Co.  1892.  Fcap.  Svo,  pp.  viii.,  un- 
numbered, and  I  to  136.  At  foot  of  last  page, 
"  Printed  by  R.  &  R.  Clark,  Edinburgh^  Bound  in 
dark  blue  cloth,  lettered  on  back. 

Contents : 
Wind  on  the  Lyre. 
The  Youthful  Quest. 
The  Empty  Purse. 
Jump-to-Glory  Jane. 


To  the  Comic  Spirit. 
Youth  in  Memory. 


Odes, 


Verses, 


Penetration  and  Trust. 
Night  of  Frost  in  May. 
The  Teaching  of  the  Nude. 
Breath  of  the  Briar. 
Empedocles. 
*  To  Colonel  Charles. 

England  before  the  Storm. 
Tardy  Spring. 

*  Originally  appeared  in  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette^  Feb.  16,  1887. 

1893. 

The  Labourer  (Poem).     The  Westminster  Gazette^  Feb.  6, 
1893. 

1894. 

Foresight  and  Patience  (Poem).      The  National  Review^ 
April,  1894,  Vol.  XXIIL,  pp.  164-174. 

Uv 


1894]  George  Meredith 


1894. 

BALLADS   AND    POEMS  |  OF  |  TRAGIC   LIFE  | 

By  I  George  Meredith  |  London  |  Macmillan  and 
Co.  I  and  New  York  |  1894  |  All  rights  reserved. 
Globe  8vo,  pp.  viii.,  unnumbered,  and  i  to  160.  At 
foot  of  last  page,  "  Printed  by  R.  &  R.  Clark,  Edin- 
burghy     Bound  in  dark  blue  cloth,  lettered  on  back. 

Contents : 

The  Two  Masks. 

Archduchess  Anne. 

The  Song  of  Theodolinda. 

A  Preaching  from  a  Spanish  Ballad. 

The  Young  Princess. 

King  Harald's  Trance. 

Whimper  of  Sympathy. 

Young  Reynard. 

Manfred. 

Hernani. 

The  Nuptials  of  Attila. 

Aneurin's  Harp, 

France,  December,  1870, 

Men  and  Man. 

The  Last  Contention. 

Periander. 

Solon. 

Bellerophon. 

Phaethdn. 

Notes. 


A   Bibliography   of         [1894 

THE  TALE  OF  CHLOE— THE  |  HOUSE  ON 
THE  BEACH—  |  THE  CASE  OF  GENERAL  | 
OPLE  AND  LADY  CAMPER  |  By  |  George  | 
Meredith  |  London  |  Ward,  Lock  &  Bowden, 
Limited  |  Warwick  House,  Salisbury  Square,  E.C.  | 
New  York  and  Melbourne  |  1894  |  [All  rights  re- 
served?^. 8vo,  pp.  viii.,  numbered,  and  i  to  345,  verso 
blank.  Containing  Portrait  and  view  of  The  ChSlet, 
Box  Hill,  in  photogravure.  Of  this  edition  250  copies, 
numbered,  were  printed.  Bound  in  French  grey  paper 
sides,  parchment  back,  uncut  edges. 


"  The  Tale  of  Chloe  "  was  reprinted  from  The  New  Quarterly 
Mag-azme,  July,  1879,  pp.  57-113;  also  serially  in  Tke  Sz^n  (New 
York)  in  i!^90. 

Reprinted  in  *'  Lovell's  Westminster  Series,"  No.  6,  July  7, 
1890.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  144,  paper  wrapper.  New  York :  John 
W.  Lovell  &  Company.     Price  25  cents. 

"The  House  on  the  Beach"  was  reprinted  from  Tke  New 
Quarterly  Magazine,  January,  1877,  pp.  329-410. 

An  unauthorised  edition  of  this  Tale  was  issued  by  Messrs. 
Harper  Brothers,  in  their  "Half-Hour"  Series,  No.  22,  1877. 
24mo,  pp.  140.     Price  20  cents. 

"The  Case  of  General  Ople  and  Lady  Camper"  was  reprinted 
from  The  Neiv  Quarterly  Magazine,  No.  16,  July,  1877,  pp.  428- 
478  ;  also  serially  in  The  Sun  (New  York)  in  1890. 

Reprinted  in  "  Lovell's  Westminster  Series,"  No.  3,  June  23, 
1890,  as  an  "Extra"  number.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  126,  paper 
wrapper.  New  York :  John  W.  Lovell  and  Company.  Price 
25  cents. 

Ivi 


1894-5]         George   Meredith 

LORD  ORMONT  AND  HIS  AMINTA  |  A  Novel  | 
By  I  George  Meredith  |  In  three  volumes  London  : 
Chapman  and  Hall,  Ld.  |  1894  j  [Ail  rights  reserved]. 
Crown  8vo,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  viii.,  unnumbered, and  i  to  235, 
verso  blank;  Vol.  11. ,  pp.  viii.,  unnumbered,  and  i  to 
240;  Vol.  III.,  pp.  viii.,  unnumbered,  and  i  to  266. 
At  foot  of  last  page  in  Vol.  III.,  "  Richard  Clay  & 
Sons,  Limited,  London  and  Bungay."  Chapters,  Vol.  I., 
8;  Vol.  II.,  10;  Vol.  III.,  12.  In  all  30.  Bound  in 
citron-coloured  cloth,  leathered  on  back.  Note  on 
p.  ii.,  Vol.  I.,  "  This  Edition,  in  3  Vols.,  consists  of 
1500  copies."  Note  on  p.  v.,  "Gratefully  inscribed  | 
to  I  George  Buckston  Browne,  I  Surgeon." 


1895. 
THE  AMAZING  j  MARRIAGE  ,  By !  George  Mere- 
dith I  In  two  volumes  |  Westminster  |  Archibald 
Constable  and  Co.  |  1895.  Crown  8vo,  Vol.  I.,  pp. 
viii.,  numbered,  and  i  to  270;  Vol.  II.,  pp.  vi., 
numbered,  and  271  to  551.  At  foot  of  last  page, 
"  Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her 
Majesty  at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press,"  verso 
blank.  In  47  Chapters.  Bound  in  light  bronze-green 
cloth,  leathered  on  side  and  back.  Dedication  on 
p.  v.,  "  To  my  Friend  |  Frederic  Jameson." 

Originally  appeared  serially  in  Scribners  Ma_i;aztne  {hondon  and 
New  York),  Jan.  to  December,  1895,  Vols.  XVII.  and  XVIII. 

Ivii 


A  Bibliography  of       [1896-7 
1896. 

The  Warning  (Sonnet).      The  Daily  Chronicle^  July  6^ 

1896. 
Mrs.  Meynell's  Two  Books  of  Essays.*     (Critical  Note 

on.)     The  National  Review^  Aug.,  1896,  Vol.  XXVII., 

pp.  762-770. 

Outside  the  Crowd  (Poem).  By  George  Meredith. 
The  National  Review,  Sept.  1896,  Vol.  XXVIII. , 
p.  26. 

"Trafalgar  Day"  (Poem).  The  Daily  Chronicle,  Oct 
21,  1896. 

1897. 

AN  ESSAY  ON  |  COMEDY  |  AND  THE  USES  OF 
THE  I  COMIC  SPIRIT  |  By  |  George  Meredith  | 
Westminster  |  Archibald  Constable  and  |  Company, 
1897.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  i  to  105,  at  foot  of  verso, 
"  Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her 
Majesty  at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press."  Bound 
in  brown  buckram,  lettered  on  back. 

Originally  appeared  in  The  New  Quarterly  Magazine,  April,  1877, 
under  the  title  of  "On  the  Idea  of  Comedy,  and  of  the  Uses  of 
the  Comic  Spirit  (A  Lecture  delivered  at  the  London  Institution, 
February  ist,  1877)." 

An  article  on  this  Lecture  {"  Mr.  George  Meredith  on  Laugh- 
ter") appeared  in  The  Spectator  of  Feb.  10,  1877,  pp.  179,  180. 

*  "  The  Rhythm  of  Life  ;  and  The  Colour  of  Life."  London  and  New  York  : 
John  Lane. 

Iviii 


i897]  George   Meredith 

SELECTED  POEMS  |  By  George  Meredith  j  West- 
minster I  Archibald  Constable  and  Co.  |  2  Whitehall 
Gardens  |  1897.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  viii.  and  i  to  245, 
at  foot  of  verso,  "  Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable, 
Printers  to  Her  Majesty  at  the  University  Press." 
Bound  in  brown  buckram,  lettered  on  back. 


Contents : 

Woodland  Peace. 

The  Lark  Ascending. 

The  Orchard  and  the  Heath. 

Seed-Time. 

Outer  and  Inner. 

Wind  on  the  Lyre. 

Dirge  in  Woods. 

Change  in  Recurrence. 

Hard  Weather. 

The  South-Wester. 

The  Thrush  in  February. 

Tardy  Spring. 

Breath  of  the  Briar. 

Young  Reynard. 

Love  in  the  Valley. 

Marian. 

Hymn  to  Colour. 

Mother  to  Babe. 

Night  of  Frost  in  May. 

Whimper  of  Sympathy. 

A  Ballad  of  Past  Meridan. 

Phoebus  with  Admetus. 

Melampus. 

The  Appeasement  of  Demeter. 

The  Day  of  the  Daughter  of  Hades. 

The  Young  Princess. 

lis 


A   Bibliography   of  [1897 

The  Song  of  Theodolinda. 

The  Nuptials  of  Attila. 

Penetration  and  Trust. 

Lucifer  in  Starlight. 

The  Star  Sirius. 

The  Spirit  of  Shakespeare. 

The  Spirit  of  Shakespeare — continued. 

The  World's  Advance. 

Earth's  Secret. 

Sense  and  Spirit. 

Grace  and  Love. 

Winter  Heavens. 

Modern  Love. 

Juggling  Jerry. 

The  Old  Chartist. 

Martin's  Puzzle. 

A  Ballad  of  Fair  Ladies  in  Revolt. 

The  Woods  of  Westermain. 

The  following  note  appears  on  page  viii.  : — 
The  selection  here  ??iade  has  \  been  under  the  supervision  of\  the 
Author. 

Another  Edition,  crown  i6mo,  pp.  viii.,  unnumbered,  and 
I  to  204.  At  foot  of  last  page,  "  Edinburgh  :  T.  and 
A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty."  Bound  in 
brown  paper,  parchment  back,  with  autograph  in  gold, 
lettered  on  back.     Archibald  Constable  &  Co.,  1898, 


1898]  George   Meredith 


1898. 

"  Hawarden  "  (Poem).  The  Daily  Chronicle^  May  27, 
1898. 

ODES  I  IN  CONTRIBUTION  |  TO  THE  SONG  | 
OF  FRENCH  |  HISTORY  |  By  |  George  Mere- 
dith I  Westminster  |  Archibald  Constable  and  Co.  | 
2  Whitehall  Gardens  |  1898.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  viii., 
unnumbered,  and  i  to  94.  At  foot  of  last  page, 
"  Butler  &  Tanner,  The  Selwood  Printing  Works, 
Frome,  and  London."  Bound  in  brown  buckram, 
lettered  on  back. 

Contents  : 
The  Revolution. 
Napoleon. 

France,  December  1870  [a  Reprint]. 
Alsace-Lorraine. 
On  page  vi. : — "Inscribed  to  the  |  Right    Hon.  John    Morley, 
M.P." 

THE  GEORGE  |  MEREDITH  |  BIRTHDAY 
BOOK  I  Selected  and  |  Arranged  by  |  D.  M.  West- 
minster I  Archibald  Constable  &  Co.  (Title-page 
enclosed  within  designed  border.)  Medium  i6mo, 
pp.  306  unnumbered,  last  page  blank.  Bound  in 
light  green  linen,  lettered  (with  design)  on  back  and 
side. 

Ixi 


A   Bibliography   of         [1898 

THE  I  NATURE  POEMS  |  OF  |  GEORGE  MERE- 
DITH I  with  I  20  Full-Page  Pictures  in  Photogravure  ] 
and  an  etched  Frontispiece  |  by  |  William  Hyde  | 
(monogram)  Westminster  |  Archibald  Constable  and 
Co.  I  2  Whitehall  Gardens  |  1898.  Imperial  8vo, 
pp.  viii.,  unnumbered,  and  i  to  76.  At  foot  of  last 
page,  "  Edinburgh :  T.  &  A.  Constable,  Printers  to 
Her  Majesty." 

Contents : 

Woodland  Peace.  The  South-Wester. 

The  Lark  Ascending.  The  Thrush  in  February. 

The  Orchard  and  the  Heath.  Tardy  Spring. 

Seed-Time.  Breath  of  the  Briar. 

Outer  and  Inner.  Love  in  the  Valley. 

Dirge  in  Woods.  Hymn  to  Colour. 

Change  in  Recurrence.  Night  of  Frost  in  May. 

Hard  Weather.  Winter  Heavens. 

The  Woods  of  Westermain. 

Note    on    p.    ii.  : — "Of  this    edition    150    copies    have   been 
printed,  of  which  this  is  No (Signed)     William  Hyde." 

Bound  in  green  paper,  parchment  back,  with  a  design,  lettered 
on  back. 

"  The  Caging  of  Ares  "  (Poem).  The  Daily  Chronicle, 
June  5,  1899. 

"  The  Night  Walk "  (Poem).  The  Century  Magazine, 
August,  1899,  Vol.  LVIIL,  No.  4. 

"At  the  Close"  (Sonnet).  The  Daily  Chronicle, 
November  16,  1899. 

Ixii 


George   Meredith 


Uniform  Editions. 
The  first  complete  uniform  Edition,  32  Volumes. 
Demy  8vo,  linen,  lettered  on  back,  gilt  top.  This 
Edition  is  limited  to  1000  numbered  and  signed 
(by  Mr.  William  Maxse  Meredith).  Sets  for  Sale. 
The  first  volume  contains  a  Portrait,  reproduced 
in  photogravure,  from  a  drawing  by  John  S.  Sargent, 
R.A. 
Archibald  Constable  &  Co. 

Vols.  I  and  2.    The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel. 
4.    Evan  Harrington. 
6.    Sandra  Belloni. 
8.    Vittoria. 

Rhoda  Fleming. 

TheAdventures  of  HarryRichmond. 

Beauchamp's  Career. 

The  Egoist. 

Diana  of  the  Crossways. 

One  of  Our  Conquerors. 

Lord  Ormont  and  His  Aminta. 

The  Amazing  Marriage. 

The  Shaving  of  Shagpat.  ) 

The  Tragic  Comedians.    J 

Short  Stories.     A  Tale   of  Chloe 

and  General  Ople. 
Short    Stories.     Farina,   and    The 

House  on  the  Beach. 
Essays. 
Poems. 
31    „  32.    Poems. 
IxiU 


3 

5 

7 

9 

1 1 

13 

15 

17 

19 
21 


i% 


10. 
12. 
14. 
16. 
18. 
20. 
22. 
24. 

26. 

27. 

28. 
29. 
32. 


;:} 


A   Bibliography   of 

New  Popular  Edition.  Crown  8vo.  Cover  designed  by 
A.  A.  Turbayne.  Bound  in  red  cloth,  lettered  on 
back,  monogram  on  side,  uncut  edges.  With  photo- 
gravure Frontispieces  by  Bernard  Partridge,  Harrison 
Miller,  Edward  Thornton,  and  others. 
Archibald  Constable  &  Co. 

The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel. 

Evan  Harrington. 

Sandra  Belloni. 

Vittoria. 

Rhoda  Fleming. 

The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond. 

Beauchamp's  Career. 

The  Egoist. 

Diana  of  the  Crossways. 

One  of  Our  Conquerors. 

Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta. 

The  Amazing  Marriage. 

The  Shaving  of  Shagpat. 

The  Tragic  Comedians. 

Short  Stories. 

Selected  Poems. 


Ixiv 


1828-89]        George   Meredith 


PERSONALIA 


Mr.  Meredith  was  born  in  Hampshire  on  Feb.  12, 
1828. 

"  Many  Happy  Returns  of  the  Day." 

The  Worlds  Feb.  12,  1890,  p.  16. 

Mr.  Meredith's  birthday  is  not  given  in  any  of  the  books  of 
reference,  such  as  "  Men  of  the  Time." 

George  Meredith.  By  Flora  L.  Shaw.  The  New 
Princeton  Review^  March  and  April,  1887,  Vol.  III., 
N.S.,  pp.  220-9. 

An  Interview  with  George  Meredith.  By  W.  M.  F. 
{i.e.^  Wm.  Morton  Fullerton).  Boston  Advertisft- 
(U.S.A.),  Dec.  17,  1888.  [Reprinted  in  the  Supple- 
ment of  The  British  Weekly^  Jan.  4,  1889,  p.  164.] 

The  Pilgrim's  Scrip.  Introduction  by  Mrs.  Oilman. 
50  pp.  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  1888.  With 
Portrait. 

The  Home  Life  of  George  Meredith.  The  Book  Buyer ^ 
Jan.,  1889,  pp.  580-2.     With  Portrait. 

Ixv 


A   Bibliography   of     [1889-94 

Old  Neuwieders  (Mr.  Meredith's  School  and  School- 
fellows).    Daily  News,  Jan.  i8,  1889. 

A  Visit  to  George  Meredith.  By  J.  B.  Oilman.  The 
Author,  Boston,  Mass.,  April,  1891,  Vol.  III.,  p.  49. 

By  George !  with  illustration  by  E.  J.  W.  Punch,  Dec. 
19,  1891,  Vol.  CI.,  p.  300. 

The  above  was  a  skit  upon  the  evidence  given  by  Mr.  Meredith 
in  the  case  of  Pinnock  v.  Chapman  and  Hall. 

The  First  Meeting  between  George  Meredith  and  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  By  Alice  Gordon.  The  Bookman, 
London,  Jan.,  1895,  Vol.  VII.,  p.  iii. 

George  Meredith's  Maiden  Speech.  By  Dr.  Robertson 
Nicoll.  The  Bookman  (American),  Aug.,  1895, 
Vol.  II.,  p.  34-6. 

"  George  Meredith  "  (Sonnet).  By  Morton  Fullerton. 
Yellow  Book,  Oct.,  1894,  Vol.  III.  Published  by 
John  Lane :  London  &  New  York. 


Ixvi 


1858-88]       George   Meredith 


to 


PORTRAITS  OF  MR.  MEREDITH 

Pen  Drawing  by  D.  G.  Rossetti.      1858. 

Mr.   T.  Nettleship  writes  to  me  on  this  subject  as 
follows  : — 

"  In  1858  Rossetti  completed  the  pen  drawing  of  which  the 
title  was  '  Mary  Magdalene  at  the  door  of  Simon  the  Pharisee.' 
I  have  often  seen  it  at  Rossetti's  house  in  Cheyne  Walk.  It  was 
upright ;  the  central  group  was  formed  by  the  Magdalene,  her 
lover,  and  a  white  doe  or  fawn  with  roses  hung  round  its  neck. 
The  Magdalene's  head  is  turned  in  profile  from  left  to  right, 
looking  in  at  the  housedoor,  in  the  upper  part,  and  to  the  left  of 
the  composition,  the  head  of  Christ  is  seen  through  a  window  of 
the  porch  ;  the  head  is  in  profile,  looking  at  the  Magdalene,  i.e. 
from  right  to  left,  and  is  silhouetted  darkly  against  a  light 
behind  it.  I  have  always  understood  that  this  head  was  origi- 
nally drawn  from  George  Meredith  ;  certainly  his  photograph 
which  you  shewed  me  sometime  since,  vividly  recalls  the  character 
of  this  head  of  Christ." 

1^^^.— The  Book  Buyer  (N.Y.),  June,  1888,  p.   196. 

*  „         Harper's  Monthly  Magazine^  June,  1 8 8 8,  p.  15. 

*  „         "  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,"  Boston. 

„  Some  Sketches  at  the  Parnell  Dinner  (George 
Meredith,  John  Morley,  Edwin  Arnold,  and 
others).  Pall  Mall  Gazette^  May  10,  1888. 

*  All  these  portraits  seem  to  be  engraved  from  Mr.  Hollyer's  photograph. 

Ixvii 


A   Bibliography   of      [1889-96 

*  1889. — The  Book  Buyer^  Jan.,   1889,  p.   581.     (See 

p.  Ivii.) 

*  „         The  Star ^  Feb.  19,  1889. 

*  „         The  Magazine  of  Poetry^  July,  1819,  p.  347. 
„         The  Graphic,  May   18,  1889,  "Mr.  Meredith 

Studies  Character,"  at  the  Parnell  Commis- 
sion, by  S.  P.  Hall. 

*  1890. — The  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  ^Sin.  25,  1890. 

*  „         The  Penny  Illustrated  Paper,  P'eb.  i,  1890. 

*  „         Great  Thoughts,  Oct.  4,  1890. 

*  „         "  Letters  to  Living  Authors,"  by  J.  A.  Steuart. 

Sampson  Low  &  Co. 
By  E.  J.  W.   (Caricature),  Punch,  Dec.  9,  Vol.  CL, 
p.  300. 

Painting  by  George  Frederick  Watts,  R.A. 

Engraving  from  above  by  J.  Biscombe  Gardiner.    Proof 
copies  on  Japanese  vellum.      London  :  John  Lane. 

1896. — (Caricature).       By     Max,     in     Vanity    Fair, 
Sept.  24. 

•  All  these  portraits  seem  to  be  engraved  from  Mr   HoUyer's  photograph. 


Ixviii 


1864-79]        George   Meredith 


ARTICLES  ON  MR.    MEREDITH'S  NOVELS, 

OR   WITH    SPECIAL    REFERENCE 

TO   THEM 

1864. 

Novels  with  a  Purpose.  ("  Richard  Feverel "  and 
"  Emiha  in  England.")  Westminster  Review,  July, 
1864,  pp.  25-49.  By  Justin  McCarthy,  M.P.  Re- 
printed in  his  volume  of  Essays — "  Con  Amore," 
p.  316-60.     Tinsley  Brothers.      1868. 

1867. 

Le  Roman  Anglais  Contemporain.  Par  E.  D.  Forgues. 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  June  15,  1867. 

1877. 

Living  Novelists,  No.  5. — George  Meredith.  [By  W.  E. 
Henley.]  London:  The  Conservative  Weekly  Journal^ 
Aug.  25,  1877. 

1879. 

The  Novels  of  George  Meredith.  [By  Arabella  Shore.] 
The  British  Quarterly,  April,  1879.  ^^^-  LXIX., 
pp.  411-25. 

Ixix 


A   Bibliography   of        [issi-e 


1881. 

A  Note  on  Mr.   George  Meredith  {on  the  occasion  of 
^^  Beauchamf  s  Career ''''^^  May,  1876. 

Essays  and  Phantasies.  By  Jas.  Thomson.  London  : 
Reeves  &  Turner,  196,  Strand.     1881.     Pp.  289-95. 

1885. 

Mr.  George  Meredith  and  the  Modern  Novel.  Daily 
News,  Oct.  19,  1885. 

George  Meredith's  Novels.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  Dec.  1 2, 
1885. 

Robert  Browning  and  George  Meredith.  A  Note  (No. 
80)  on  their  similarity.  By  Arthur  Symons.  Browning 
Society s Papers.   Part  I.,  Vol.  11.     1885-6.    Pp.  80-2. 

1886. 

George  Meredith's  Works.     [By  W.  E.  Henley.]      The 

State,  April  17,  1886. 

George  Meredith's  Novels.  By  W.  L.  Courtney,  M.A. 
The  Fortnightly  Review,  June,  1886,  pp.  771-9.  Re- 
printed in  The  Book  Mart  (U.S.A.),  Oct.,  1886. 

Three  Novels  by  Mr.  Meredith.  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
June  14,  1886. 

Mr.  George  Meredith's  Novels.  Saturday  Review,  July 
24,  1886,  pp.  116,  117. 

George    Meredith's    Novels.       The    subject    of    "  The 

Ixx 


1886-8]         George  Meredith 

London  Letter,"  signed  H.B.      The  Critic  (U.S.A.), 
Aug.  14,  1886,  pp.  77,  78. 
George    Meredith's    Novels.      The    Spectator^    Oct.    16, 

1886,  pp.    1 38 1,    1382.      [Reprinted   in    The   Critic 
(U.S.A.),  Vol.  XL,  pp.  205,  206,  Oct.  22,  1887.] 

George  Meredith.  By  Flora  L.  Shaw.  The  New  Prince- 
ton Review  J  March,  1887,  Vol.  II L,  pp.  220-229. 

1887. 

The  Novels  of  George  Meredith.  Literary  World 
(U.S.A.),  April  30,  1887,  Vol.  XVIIL,  pp.  137,  138. 

Mr.  George  Meredith's  Works.  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  May 
7,  1887.     [Reprinted  in  Pall  Mall  Bugdet^  May  12, 

1887,  pp.  29,  30.] 

A  Word  with  George  Meredith.     Atlantic  Monthly,  June, 

1887,  Vol.  LIX.,  pp.  854,  855. 
George  Meredith.     Harvard  Monthly,  July-Sept.,  1887, 

Vol.  IV.,  p.  138.     By  G.  P.  Baker,  jun. 

1888. 

George  Meredith.  By  George  Parsons  Lathrop.  Atlantic 
Monthly,  Feb.,  1888,  No.  364,  Vol.  LXL,  pp.  178-93. 

The  Functions  of  the  Novelist,  and  the  way  George 
Meredith  fulfils  them.  A  paper  read  at  the  University 
College  Literary  Society.  By  Miss  Adeline  Sergeant. 
The  Academy,  March  10,  1888,  p.  175. 

The  Gospel  according  to  George  Meredith.  Pall  Mall 
Gazette,  Sept.  27,  1888.  Part  I.  Pall  Mall  Gazette^ 
Oct.  15,  1888.      Part  II. 

Ixxi  S 


A  Bibliography   of      [1888-9 

Mr.  George  Meredith's  Novels.  By  J.  M.  Barrie.  The 
Contemporary  Review^  Oct.,  1888,  Vol.  LIV.,  pp.  375- 
86.  [Reprinted  in  Eclectic  Magazine  (U.S.A.),  Vol. 
CXII.,  pp.  118-26,  Jan.,  1889.] 

The  Lost  Works  of  George  Meredith.  By  J.  M.  Barrie. 
[The  Lecture  on  Comedy  and  the  Three  Stories,  con- 
tributed by  Mr.  Meredith  to  The  New  Quarterly 
Magazine.'\      The  Scots  Observer^  Nov.  24,  1888. 


1889. 

Thackeray's  Characters  in  Real  Life  (with  reference  to 
Mr.  Meredith's  characters  in  "  The  Egoist  ").  Pall 
Mall  Gazette,  April  30,  1889,  p.  3. 

Letters  to  Living  Authors  :  To  Mr.  George  Meredith, 
signed  "  Roderick  Random  "  (i.e.  J.  A.  Steuart),  Wit 
and  Wisdom,  May  11,  1889,  pp.  9,  10.  [Reprinted 
in  "  Letters  to  Living  Authors."  By  J.  A.  Steuart, 
pp.  1-17.     Sampson  Low,  1890.] 

George  Meredith's  Novels.  The  Critic  (N.Y.),  June  i, 
1889,  pp.  267,  268. 

George  Meredith's  Views  of  Women.  By  a  Woman  (i.e. 
Miss  Adeline  Sergeant).  Temple  Bar,  June,  1889, 
No.  343,  Vol.  LXXXVL,  pp.  207-13.  [Reprinted  in 
Book  Mart  (U.S.A.),  Aug.,  1890.] 

George  Meredith.      The  Echo,  June  28,  1889,  p.  i. 

Ixxii 


1889-90]        George   Meredith 

George  Meredith.  Selections  from  Original  Contribu- 
tions by  James  Thomson  to  Cope's  Tobacco  Plant. 
Liverpool :  At  the  Office  of  Copers  Tobacco  Plant. 
1889.      Pp.  46-8. 

George  Meredith  as  a  Theorist.  By  T.  McLaughlin. 
New  Englander,  Aug.,  1889,  Vol.  LL,  pp.  81-95. 

Modern  Men — George  Meredith.  [By  Jas.  McLaren 
Cobban.]  The  Scots  Observer,  Sept.  28,  1889,  pp.  5 1 5, 
516. 

Reprinted  in  "  Modern  Men "  from  Tke  Scots  Observer, 
pp.  116-22.  London:  Edward  Arnold,  18,  Warwick  Square, 
E.C. 

Fiction — Plethoric  and  Anaemic.  By  Wm.  Watson. 
The  National  Review,  Oct.,  1889,  pp.  167-83. 

The  Daughter  of  Dreams.  Family  Herald^  Oct.  26, 
1889,  pp.413,  414- 


1890. 

The  Meredithyramb  and  its   Critics.     By  Richard    Le 
Gallienne.      Time,  March,  1890,  pp.  307—19. 

George    Meredith.      Views   and  Reviews.     By    W.    E. 
Henley,     pp.  43-55.     London:  David  Nutt.     1890. 

Mr.  Meredith's  Novels.     By  A.   N.   Monkhouse.      The 
Manchester  Quarterly,  Oct.,  1890,  pp.  293-322. 

George  Meredith.      Great  Thoughts,  Oct.   4,    1890,  pp. 
216-20. 

Ixxiii 


A   Bibliography   of       [1891-3 
1891. 

A  Lady's  Estimate  of  George  Meredith.  A  paper  read 
by  Mrs.  W.  D.  Fish  before  the  Crouch  Hill  Library. 
The  Echo,  Feb.  4,  1891. 

George  Meredith.  A  Study.  By  Hannah  Lynch.  Por- 
trait.     1 89 1.     Methuen  &  Co. 

A  Study  of  Mr.  George  Meredith.  By  J.  A.  Newton- 
Robinson.  Murray s  Magazine,  Dec,  1891,  Vol.  X., 
pp.  859-868. 

1892. 

Meredith's  Method  and  Teaching.  By  W.  J.  Dawson 
(illustrated).  The  Young  Man,  Feb.,  p.  49,  and  March, 
p.  88,  1892,  Vol.  VI. 

Meredith  for  the  Multitude.  By  Richard  Le  Gallienne 
(illustrated).  The  Novel  Review,  May,  1892,  Vol.  L, 
pp.  140-152. 

Mr.  Meredith  and  His  Critics.     By  F.  Graham  Aylward. 

The  Library  Review,  Vol.  L,  May,  1892,  pp.  134-139, 

and  July,  1892,  pp.  281-288. 
Studies  of  Contemporary  Novelists  :  English.    L  George 

Meredith.      By  David  Dick.      World  Literature,  Vol. 

IL    First  Paper,  May,  1892,  pp.  1-6.      Second  Paper, 

June,  1892,  pp.  32-7.      Third  Paper,  July,  1892,  pp. 

59-65. 

1893. 

George  Meredith  as  Journalist.  By  Frederic  Dolman, 
The  New  Review,  March,  1893,  Vol.  VHL,  pp.  342- 

348. 

Ixxiv 


1893-6]         George   Meredith 

George  Meredith.  Temple  Bar^  April,  1893,  Vol 
XCVIL,  pp.  589  -604. 

George  Meredith.  By  Anne  Wakeman  Lathrop  (an 
Interview).  Illustrations,  including  Portrait,  by  George 
Hutchinson,  Idler^  Nov.,  1893,  Vol.  IV.,  pp.  343-348. 

1894. 

George  Meredith  and  the  Public.  By  Colin  Weird. 
Great  Thoughts^  Feb.  3,  1894,  Vol.  XXI.,  pp.  361,  362. 

Ernest  Newman  on  George  Meredith.  Free  Review^ 
Aug.,  1894,  Vol.  II.,  pp.  398. 

George  Meredith's  Novels.  By  Emily  F.  Wheeler.  The 
Chautauquan^  Aug.,  1894,  Vol.  XIX.,  pp.  561-5. 

1895. 
Mr.  Meredith's  Novels.      The  Edinburgh  Review^  Jan., 
1895,  Vol.  CLXXXL,  pp.  33-58. 

The  Novels  of  George  Meredith.  By  J.  H.  Bocklehurst. 
The  Manchester  Quarterly^  Oct.,  1895,  Vol.  XIV.,  pp. 
340-352- 

A  Summer  with  George  Meredith :  In  Particular 
"  Richard  Feverel."  By  Edith  Menefee.  Poet  Lore, 
Oct.,  1895,  Vol.  VII.,  pp.  505-512. 

1896. 
Mr.  Meredith's  Novels.     By  Allan  Monkhouse.     Books 
and  Plays,  pp.  1-46.     John  Lane,  London  and  New 
York,   1896.     [Reprinted  from  The  Manchester  Quar- 
terly^ Oct.,  1890,  pp.  293-322.] 

Ixxv 


A   Bibliography  of       [1896-7 

Mr.  Meredith  in  Little.  By  G.  S.  Street.  "  Quales 
Ego,"  pp.  1-12.  John  Lane,  London  &  New  York, 
1896.  [Reprinted  from  The  Yellow  Book ^  April,  1895, 
Vol.  v.,  pp.  174-185.     John  Lane]. 

The  Women  of  George  Meredith.  By  Garnet  Smith. 
The  Fortnightly  Review,  May,   1896,  Vol.  LIX.,  pp. 

775-790- 

George  Meredith's  Women.  By  M.  V.  Great  Thoughts, 
May  16,  1896,  Vol.  VIL,  pp.  99,  100. 

The  Novels  of  George  Meredith.  By  F.  Mary  Wilson 
Parsons.  Temple  Bar,  June,  1896,  Vol.  CVIIL,  pp. 
262-269. 

Nature  Lessons  from  George  Meredith.  By  Henry  S. 
Salt.     The  Free  Review,  Sept.,  1896,  Vol.  IV.,  p.  502. 

George  Meredith's  Heroines.  By  Frances  E.  Ashwell. 
Great  Thoughts,  Vol.  VHL 

I.     Lucy  Desborough.     Oct.  3,  1896,  pp.  3,  4. 
n.     Rhoda  Fleming.     Nov.  4,  1896,  pp.  107,  108. 
HL     Emilia    Alessandra   Belloni.     Dec.    26,    1896, 
pp.  215,  216. 

1897. 

IV.     Diana  of  the  Crossways.      Jan.   23,   1897,  pp. 

271,  272. 
V.     Clara   Middleton.     Feb.    27,    1897,   pp.    251, 

252. 
VI.     Carinthia  Jane.     March  20,  1897,  pp.  407,  408. 

Ixxvi 


1897-8]         George   Meredith 

My  Contemporary  in  Fiction.  By  David  Christie 
Murray.  The  Canadian  Magazine^  March,  1897,  Vol. 
VIIL,  p.  411. 

Meredith  on  Comedy.  By  G.  B.  S.  (George  Bernard 
Shaw).  The  Saturday  Review ^  March  27,  1897,  Vol. 
LXXXIII.,  pp,  314-316. 

The  Apotheosis  of  the  Novel  under  Queen  Victoria.  By 
Herbert  Paul.  The  Nineteenth  Century,  May,  1897, 
Vol.  XLI.  Portion  relating  to  George  Meredith,  pp. 
786,  787. 

George  Meredith's  Novels.  By  M.  Johnson.  The 
Primitive  Methodist  Quarterly  Review^  July,  1897, 
Vol.  XIX.,  pp.  422-436. 

The  Novels  of  George  Meredith.  The  Quarterly  Review^ 
July,  1897,  Vol.  CLXXXVL,  pp.  159-182. 

A  Note  on  George  Meredith.  By  Arthur  Symons. 
The  Fortnightly  Review^  Nov.,  1897,  Vol.  LXII.,  pp. 
673-678. 

1898. 

Some  Opinions.  By  A.  B.  C.  D.  Blackwood's  Edin- 
burgh Magazine,  Nov.,  1898,  Vol.  CLXIV.  Portion 
relating  to  George  Meredith,  pp.  593-6. 


Ixxvii 


A  Bibliography  of      [1883-94 


ARTICLES  ON 
MR.  GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  POETRY 


Poets  of  To-day.  By  W.  L.  Courtney.  The  Fortnightly 
Review,  pp.  717,  718,  Nov.,  1883. 

George  Meredith's  Poetry.  By  [Arthur  Symons.]  West- 
minster Review,    Sept.,    1887,   ^o\.    CXXVIIL,   pp. 

693-7- 

An  Inarticulate  Poet.      The  Spectator,  Oct.  15,  1887. 

George  Meredith's  Nature  Poems.  By  Richard  Le 
GaUienne.  Lippincotfs  Monthly  Magazine,  Sept., 
1890,  pp.  418-24. 

George  Meredith's  Nature  Poetry.  By  Richard  Le 
GalHenne.  Lippincotfs  Magazine,  Sept.,  1890,  Vol.  II. 
Enghsh  Special  Edition,  pp.  418-424. 

George  Meredith's  Poetry.  Westminster  Review,  Sept., 
1887,  Vol.  CXXVIIL,  pp.  693-697. 

Mr.  Meredith  in  His  Poems.  By  Professor  Edward 
Dowden.  The  Fortnightly  Review,  March,  1892,  Vol. 
LL,  pp.  337-353- 

The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith.  By  George  Wharton. 
The  Free  Review,  Oct.,  1894,  Vol.  III.,  p.  36. 

Ixxviii 


1894-7]         George   Meredith 

George  Meredith's  Nature  Poetry.  By  William  F.  Revell. 
The  Westminster  Review^  Nov.,  1894,  Vol.  CXLII., 
pp.  506-523. 

Nature  as  Interpreted  in  the  Poems  of  George  Meredith. 
The  Author^  May  i,  1895,  Vol.  V.,  pp.  319-321. 

Mr.  Meredith's  Poems.  By  Allan  Monkhouse.  Books 
and  Plays,  pp.  47-79.  John  Lane,  London  &  New 
York,  1896. 

Nature  Interpreted  by  George  Meredith's  Poems.  By 
Ramsay  CoUes,  M.R.I. A.  The  Irish  Monthly,  Aug., 
1896,  Vol.  XXIV.,  pp.  420-424. 

The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith.  The  Church  Quarterly 
Review,  July,  1897,  Vol.  XLIV.,  pp.  386-403. 


Ixxix 


A   Bibliography   of       [1884-6 


DEDICATIONS 


"  This  Romance  is  dedicated  to  George  Meredith,  at 
whose  suggestion  it  was  written."  From  Post  to  Finish. 
A  Novel,  by  Hawley  Smart.  3  Vols.  London : 
Chapman  &  Hall.      1884. 

"  To  George  Meredith,  as  a  token  of  a  very  sincere 
admiration,  is  this  story,  with  some  timidity,  inscribed 
by  the  author."  Through  Troubled  Waters.  A  Novel 
by  Hannah  Lynch.     Ward,  Lock,  &  Co.     [1885.] 

"  To  George  Meredith,  Novelist  and  Poet,  this  book  on 
an  illustrious  contemporary  is  with  deep  respect  and 
admiration  inscribed."  Introduction  to  the  Study  of 
Browning.    By  Arthur  Symons.    Cassell&Co.     1886. 


Ixzz 


1856-82]         George   Meredith 


APPRECIATIONS 


New  Poets.     Edinburgh  Review,  Oct.,  1856,  pp.  355, 

Mr.  Pater's  Essays.  By  John  Morley.  The  Fortnightly 
Review  J  April,  1873,  p.  473. 

The  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man,  pp.  269,  277.  (As 
Poet.)     By  George  Moore. 

The  Novel  of  Manners.  By  H.  D.  Traill.  The  Nineteenth 
Century,  October,  1875,  P-  57^- 

Essays  and  Studies.  1875.  (As  Poet.)  By  A.  C. 
Swinburne.     P.  87. 

The  New  Fiction.  By  Henry  Holbeach  \i.e.,  William 
Brighty  Rands].  The  Contemporary  Review,  February, 
1880,  pp.  250,  251.  Reprinted  in  Appleton^ s  Journal, 
Vol.  XXIIL,  p.  345- 

A  Gossip  on  Romance  By  R.  L.  Stevenson.  Long- 
man^ s  Magazine,  No.  i,  Nov.,  1882,  p.  75. 

D.  G.  Rossetti :  A  Record  and  a  Study.  By  William 
Sharp.      1882.     Pp.  25  and  352. 

The  Works  of  Fielding.      The  Athenceum,  Nov.  4,  1882, 

P-  593- 

ixxxi 


A   Bibliography   of      [1885-89 

George  Eliot's  Life.     Vol.  I.,  pp.  389,  390.     1885. 

Our  Noble  Selves.  By  Grant  Allen.  The  Fortnightly 
Review^  February,  1887,  pp.  214,  217,  220. 

The  Present  State  of  the  Novel.  By  Geo.  Saintsbury. 
The  Fortnightly  Review^  Sept.,  1887,  p.  411. 

Aphorisms,  An  Address.  By  John  Morley.  Macmillan 
&  Co.,  1887,  p.  20. 

Books  Which  Have  Influenced  Me  (Egoist).  By  R.  L. 
Stevenson.  No.  i.  The  British  Weekly  ^^  Extras ^^ 
1887,  pp.  12,  13. 

The  Reign  of  Queen  Victoria.  Edited  by  T.  Humphry 
Ward.  2  Vols.  1887.  Vol.  H.,  p.  491.  By  Richard 
Garnett. 

Life  and  Literature :  An  Evening  with  Mr.  R.  L.  Steven- 
son.    Pall  Mall  Gazette^  Aug.  8,  1888,  p.  11. 

Review  of  F.  W.  Robinson's  "  The  Youngest  Miss 
Green."     The  Athenceum^  Sept.  15,  1888,  p.  350. 

Life  of  James  Thomson  ("  B.  V."),  by  H.  S.  Salt,  pp. 
22,  136,  138,  140,  141,  152,  154,  156,  165,  167,  179, 
180,  292,  293.     Bertram  Dobell.     London:    1889. 

This  volume  is  indispensable  to  Meredith  Students  ;  it  throws 
a  strong  side  light  on  Mr.  Meredith's  character. 

The  Decay  of  Lying :  A  Dialogue.  By  Oscar  Wilde. 
The  Nineteenth  Century^  Jan.,  1889,  p.  40. 

Our  Booking  Office.  By  Baron  de  Book  Worms.  Punch, 
Jan.  12,  1889,  p.  22. 

Ixxxii 


1889-90]        George  Meredith 

Books  and  Bookmen.     By  "  Tatler." 

"There   are   many    'appreciations'  in   this   interesting   weekly 
column  (on  Thursdays)."— 7%«?  Star,  May  9,  1889. 

A  Dead  Man's  Diary.     1890.     Edited  by  G.  T.  Bettany, 
M.A.     Pp.  47-9. 

Mr.   Stevenson's   Methods   in  Fiction.      By  A.   Conan 
Doyle.     National  Review^  Jan.,  1890,  pp.  646-57. 

Romance  and  Youth.      St.  Jameses   Gazette^   Feb.    18, 
1890. 

Tennyson  and   After  ?      The  Fortnightly   Review^   May, 
1890,  pp.  629  and  635. 

Distinction.     By   Coventry  Patmore.      The  Fortnightly 
Review^  June,  1890,  p.  827. 

Ferdinand  Lassalle.     By  M.   Walters.      The    Universal 
Review^  Aug.  15,  1890,  p.  521. 

Note  on  Charlotte  Bronte.     By  A.  C.  Swinburne,  p.  10. 

A  Voice  from  the  Nile.     By  Jas.  Thomson.     Bertram 
Dobell's  Introduction.     Pp.  40  and  49. 

A  History  of  Our  Own  Times.     By  Justin  McCarthy, 
M.P.     Vol.  IV.,  pp.  550,  551. 

Life  of  Robert  Browning.     (Great  Writer  Series.)     By 
William  Sharp.     1890.    Pp.  123,  124,  186,  197,  198. 

Hints  on  Catalogue  Titles.     By  Charles  P\  Blackburn, 
Sampson  Low  &  Co.      1884.     Pp.  83,  91,  97. 

New  Watchwords  of  Fiction,    By  Hall  Caine.     The  Con- 
temporary Review^  April,  1890,  p.  485. 

Ixxxiii 


A   Bibliography  of         [1891 

How  One  Wrestled  with  George  Meredith,  Esq.,  Novelist, 

and  was  Thrown. 

Full-page  illustration  by  J.   Barnard  Partridge.     Hood's  Comic 
Annual,  1891,  p.  63. 

The  Celt  in  English  Art.     By  Grant  Allen.      The  Fort- 
nightly Review,  Feb.,  1891,  pp.  268,  277. 

Decorative  Electric  Lighting.    By  Mrs.  J.  E.  H.  Gordon. 
The  Fortnightly  Review,  Feb.,  1891,  p.  279. 

The  Soul  of  Man  under  Socialism.     By  Oscar  Wilde. 
The  Fortnightly  Review,  Feb.,  1 891,  pp.  312,  313. 

Owing  to  the  recognition  that  Mr.  Meredith  has  re- 
ceived during  the  last  few  years,  the  limitations  of  space 
will  not  permit  me  to  bring  the  above  list  up  to  date. 


PARODIES 

By  George!     With  an  Illustration  by  E.  J.  W.     Punch, 
Dec.  19,  1 89 1,  Vol.  CI.,  p.  300. 

The  Victory  of  Aphasia  Gibberish.     By  Max  Beerbohm. 

Saturday  Revieiv,  Christmas  Number,    1896,  pp.    10 

and  II. 
At  the  Sign  of  the  Cock.     (French  Style,  1898.) 

[Being  an  Ode  in  further  "  Contribution  to  the 
Song  of  French  History,"  dedicated  without  maHce  or 
permission,  to  Mr.  George  Meredith],  contained  in 
"  Cap  and  Bells."  By  Owen  Seaman,  pp.  15-20.  Pub- 
lished by  John  Lane,  London  and  New  York,  1900. 

Ixxxiv 


SOME  NOTES  IN  REGARD  TO 
GEORGE  MEREDITH  IN  AMERICA 

BY 
W,  MORTON  FULLERTON 


SOME  NOTES  IN  REGARD  TO  GEORGE 
MEREDITH  IN  AMERICA. 


Some  one  said  once  of  Matthew  Arnold,  in  reference  to 
a  well-known  impression  left  by  his  original  style,  that  he 
attained  clearness  by  defect  of  vision.  It  is  a  saying  not 
wholly  to  my  mind.  But  there  is  much  truth  in  it ;  and 
the  fact  of  this  truth  is  largely  accountable  for  his  vogue, 
and  his  distinction  as  a  writer  of  limpid  and  unequivocal 
prose.  He  was  always  intelligible,  and  more  than  that, 
he  was  always  charming ;  and  this  is  a  great  thing. 

These  were  qualities  that  gave  Arnold  a  strong  power 
of  attraction  in  America ;  and  for  many  men,  at  colleges 
and  the  universities,  men  given  at  the  time  when  they 
first  made  his  acquaintance  to  Schopenhauer  and  Omar 
Khayyam,  he  was  the  chief  voice  out  of  England  across 
the  sea ;  and  another  writer,  who,  owing  to  his  aristo- 
phanic  temper,  never  could  have  worn  the  academic  robe 
of  Arnold,  a  writer  far  greater  in  spirit  and  in  achievement 
than  Arnold,  was  never  heard  of  among  us. 

I  remember  so  well  when  the  name  of  Meredith  first 
became  in  America  a  name  to  conjure  with;  and  most 
clearly  of  all  I  remember  the  surprised  awakening  for 


A   Bibliography  of 

some  of  us  when  we  realised  how  long  this  man  had  been 
writing,  and  that  we  had  known  nothing  of  him. 

There  seemed  no  excuse  that  a  people  who  were  the 
first  to  detect  the  greatness  of  Carlyle  had  failed  to 
acquaint  themselves  with  the  kindred  genius  of  George 
Meredith — kindred  at  least  in  many  respects.  The 
oversight  was  not  easy  to  explain.  But  the  American 
audience  of  to-day  and  of  this  recent  period  of  which  I 
am  speaking  was,  it  was  evident  when  one  stopped  to 
think,  a  very  different  audience  from  that  of  the  early 
New  England  and  the  early  Boston ;  for  subtlety,  and 
graces,  and  tricks  of  style  were  not  then  thought  so 
desirable  characteristics  as  spontaneity  of  sincere  expres- 
sion from  the  virile  heart  of  a  man.  So,  without  my 
analysing  too  curiously,  it  will  be  plain  by  these  few 
suggestions  in  what  direction  the  explanation  of  the  fact 
would  lead  me  had  I  room  here  to  consider  it.  I  hasten 
to  state  with  brevity  one  or  two  unobtrusive  facts  in  regard 
to  Meredith  in  America;  facts  which,  in  a  book  of  this 
sort,  will  not  be  out  of  place. 

Before  the  appearance  of  the  first  uniform  American 
edition,  as  to  the  exact  date  of  which  I  am  from  this 
point  of  time  uncertain,  George  Meredith  was  scarcely 
known  at  all  in  America.  I  recall  Professor  Croswell, 
of  Harvard,  once  saying  to  me  that  he  had  just  been 
reading  a  very  remarkable  book,  the  work  of  a  great 
mind,  naming  one  of  the  novels  of  Meredith,  and  his 
asking  me  if  I  knew  anything  about  the  book ;  but  either 
from  preoccupation  in  my  Theocritus  at  the  time,  or 
more  likely  from  the  indifference  of  an  undergraduate 

Ixxxviii 


George   Meredith 


already  sated  with  books  to  be  read  in  anticipation  of 
examinations,  I  failed  to  follow  my  friend's  suggestion. 
He  had  used  the  English  edition,  and  except  from  him 
I  doubt  if  in  all  Cambridge  I  should  have  been  able  to 
get  a  copy  of  Meredith.  For  a  long  time  even  the  great 
libraries  were  without  a  volume  by  Meredith,  except 
perhaps  a  small  poorly-printed  Bowdlerized  edition  of 
Diana  which  did  scarcely  any  service  whatever  in  making 
him  known  in  America.  And  then  the  first  uniform  one 
volume  edition  appeared  from  Roberts  Brothers  in  Boston, 
and  the  triumphal  progress  began. 

Even  then,  it  was  a  long  time,  however,  before  George 
Meredith  and  "  Owen  Meredith  "  were  quite  differentiated 
in  the  popular  mind  Yet  many  readers  were  deacons 
and  deaconesses  in  the  cult  of  Browning,  or  rabbis  in  his 
and  in  Emerson's  school ;  people  do  such  queer  things 
in  great  towns,  and  particularly  in  that  one  which  Mr. 
Henry  James  has  called  the  "  remarkable  city  of  Boston." 
At  the  time  when  this  edition  appeared  I  happened  to  be 
literary  editor  of  the  Boston  Advertiser,  The  first  volume 
of  the  series  was  Richard  Feverel;  and  it  was  upon  this 
book  that  I  chanced  after  a  weary  passage  over  a  truly 
barren  unharvested  sea  of  modern  fiction.  It  came  as  a 
revelation,  and  I  turned  to  biographical  dictionaries  and 
indexes — all  I  could  lay  my  hands  on — to  find  out  some- 
thing about  the  author  of  a  book  which  seemed  to  me  to 
contain  passages  of  supremely  excellent  writing,  and  which 
as  a  whole,  notwithstanding  that  it  was  so  full  of  crudities 
and  exasperating  defects,  was,  to  my  mind,  at  least  the 
peer  of  any  novel  of  the  century.     There  was  not  much 

Ixxxix 


A   Bibliography  of 

to  learn  about  Meredith  in  this  fugitive  fashion ;  there 
were  a  few  attempts  at  criticism  in  EngHsh  reviews,  but 
these  were  rarely  read ;  and  then  another  novel  in  the 
new  edition  was  at  hand  awaiting  perusal.  I  felt  that  I 
detected  almost  rare  qualities  of  insight  and  a  great  and 
distinguished  power  of  original  expression.  But  the 
thing  was,  at  that  time,  to  say  so. 

Once,  at  a  dinner-party,  I  found  within  me  the  tem- 
porary courage  of  my  opinions.  There  were  at  the  table 
several  people  of  recognised  authority  as  critics  who  held 
the  ears  of  many  men.  But  venturing  to  say  a  little  of 
what  I  thought  about  Meredith,  I  met  with  only  an 
incredulous  look,  born  of  an  utter  ignorance  of  his  work. 
One  man,  however,  came  round  with  a  smile  and  grasped 
my  hand.  The  incident  was  typical  of  the  attitude  of 
the  public  towards  Meredith.  Either  there  was  utter 
ignorance,  or  an  enthusiasm  equally  dense  and  unworthy. 

So  that  when  it  came  to  me  to  notice  these  books  in 
the  AdverHscr,  in  somewhat  too  eulogistic  phrase,  and  I 
trespassed  upon  the  editorial  page  instead  of  disporting 
myself  within  the  parallel  bars  of  my  own  more  accustomed 
columns,  a  mild  but  waiting  scepticism  as  to  my  sanity 
was  the  least  offensive  form  of  a  feeling  natural  enough 
indeed,  but  which  in  its  intensity  took  the  shape  of  abso- 
lutely damning  belief  in  my  immature  and  untrained 
judgment.  But  the  martyrdom  was  not  painfully  pro- 
tracted. With  chagrin  I  soon  noted  that  I  was  not  to  be 
allowed  the  selfish  pleasure  of  clinging  to  an  unpopular 
cause.  I  had  kept  the  columns  as  full  of  allusions  to 
Mr.  Meredith,  and  of  editorials  upon  him,  as  my  editor- 


George   Meredith 


in-chief  would  endure ;  and  as  a  result  had  called  out  a 
number  of  responses  that  kept,  as  the  expression  is,  the 
ball  rolling.  In  less  than  a  year  in  Boston  we  all  read 
Meredith,  and  Mr.  Niles  up  there  in  the  bay-window  on 
Beacon  Hill  would  have  told  you  that  he  was  contem- 
plating a  new  and  cheaper  edition.  Philadelphia,  mean- 
while, and  New  York,  had  done  themselves  the  honour 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  company ;  and  I  hope  with  all  my 
heart  that  Mr.  Meredith  had  honest  practical  proof  of  it. 
Nothing  ever  written  in  America  upon  Mr.  Meredith  was 
so  opportune  or  effective,  I  may  say,  as  Miss  Flora  Shaw's 
article  in  the  Princeton  Review.  We  all  quoted  from  it. 
But  this  awakening  was  more  than  thirty  years  late ;  and 
thirty  years  is  so  long  a  time  to  wait  in  the  life  of  a 
man ! 

W.  M.  F. 
July  27,  1890. 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

A  CRITICISM 
By  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

WITH     BIBLIOGRAPHY     BY     JOHN     LANE 
Price  3s.  6d.  net.  Crown  8vo.  Price  $1.25. 

GUARDIAN.— "Undeniably  very  good  reading.  One  of  the  cleverest  pieces  of 
criticism  we  have  come  across  for  a  long  time.  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  praises  of  the  bulk  of 
Mr.  Kipling's  works  are  not  less  cordial,  original,  and  clever,  than  the  censures  he 
passes  upon  the  passages  that  offend  him." 

MORNING    LEADER. — "  An  excellent  piece  of  criticism  .  .  .  just  and  sincere." 

OUTLOOK. — "  Kipling  has  never  been  so  thoroughly  examined  or  so  justly 
appreciated  as  in  this  volume." 

ACADEMY. — "  Indubitably  the  work  of  a  critic  who  knows  his  own  mind,  who 
brings  a  real  love  of  literature  to  his  task,  and  who  can  appreciate  excellence  in  work  to 
which  innately  he  is  antipathetic." 

GEORGE    MEREDITH 

SOME   CHARACTERISTICS 
By  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

WITH  A  BIBLIOGRAPHY  (GREATLY  EXTENDED  IN  THIS 
EDITION)  BY  JOHN  LANE 

Sixth  Edition^  Revised. 

Price  5s.  net.  Post  8vo,  cloth.  Price  $2.00. 

TIMES. — "The  many  admirers  of  Mr.  Meredith's  works  will  be  glad  to  have  their 
attention  directed  to  this  handsome  book  in  his  honour." 

SPEAKER. — "  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  criticism  is  well  written  and  good  reading.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Lane's  bibliography,  full  of  interesting  and  curious  matter  .  .  .  could  hardly  be 
bettered." 

VANITY  FAIR. — "  A  very  interesting  and  helpful  book,  likely  to  be  agreeable  to 
-Mr.  Meredith's  instructed  admirers,  and  suggestive  to  many  by  whom  his  works  are 
misunderstood.  ...  As  appreciations  merely,  the  essays  are  of  a  high  order  of  literary 
merit." 

PALL  MALL.— Mr.  Le  Galiienne  .  .  .  knows  his  Meredith  thoroughly,  possesses 
the  requisite  enthusiasm,  the  indispensable  insight.  .  .  .  He  is  sympathetic  and  intelli- 
gent. .  .  .  There  is  an  invaluable  bibliography  of  seventy  pages.  If  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  bibliography,  the  book  is  one  no  lover  of  Meredith  can  afford  to  be  without." 

JOHN  LANE,  PUBLISHER,  LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  ART  OF 
THOMAS    HARDY 

By    LIONEL   JOHNSON 

WITH  ETCHED  PORTRAIT  BY  WILLIAM  STRANG, 

AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY  BY  JOHN  LANE 

Second  Edition. 

Price  5s.  6d.  net.  Crown  8vo,  Price  $1.50  net. 

TIIMESi — ^"  Those  who  want  to  read  about  Mr.  Hardy  will  find  Mr.  Johnson  an 

instructive  and  not  too  obtrusive  guide.     He  is  a  man  of  culture  and  insight." 

ACADEMY. — "  It  is  indeed  an  admirable  book  ;  admirable  in  temper,  admirable  in 
felicity  ;  revealing  to  us,  one  would  gladly  think,  a  new  master  in  this  most  difficult  art 
of  criticism  ;  one  whose  writings  may  stand  on  our  shelves  beside  the  golden  volumes  of 
Arnold  and  of  Pater.  ...  I  close  the  book  with  a  feeling  of  profound  gratitude  to  him, 
with  a  sense  that  he  has  given  me  a  new  work  of  art  for  my  contemplation  and  consolation. " 


MEN    AND    LETTERS 

By    HERBERT    PAUL 

Fourth  Edition. 
Price  5s.  net.  Crown  8vo.  Price  $1.50  net. 

DAILY  NEWS.—  "  Mr.  Herbert  Paul  has  done  scholars  and  the  reading  world  in 
general  a  high  service  in  publishing  this  collection  of  his  essays.  .  .  .  To  write  an  essay 
that  shall  tickle  the  understanding,  as  a  sauce  by  Brillat  .Savarin  must  have  tickled  the 
palate,  is  a  task  attempted  by  many  and  accomplished  by  few.  Among  these  few  Mr. 
Paul  must  be  ranked.  ...  It  must  be  read  as  a  whole  by  all  who  appreciate  urbanity, 
humour,  and  a  style  which  glitters  like  the  point  of  a  rapier  wielded  by  a  master  of  fence." 

PUNCH. — "A  delightful  book  of  essays.  Mr.  Paul's  touch  is  as  light,  and  his 
style  as  brilliant  as  his  reading  is  wide  and  his  memory  accurate.  .  .  .  His  fund  of  good 
stories  is  inexhaustible,  and  his  urbanity  never  fails.  On  the  whole,  this  book  is  one  of 
the  very  best  examples  of  literature  on  literature  and  life." 


BOOKSafPERSONALITIES 

By    H.    W.    NEVINSON 

Price  5s.  net.  Crown  8vo.  Price  $1.50  net. 

WORLD. — "There  is  the  same  strong  and  gentle  spirit,  the  irony  always  used  in 
the  service  of  the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful,  the  pathos,  and  the  varied,  easy  style 
which  we  found  in  'Between  the  Acts.'  .  .  .  His  judgments  are  always  valuable; 
where  they  are  new  they  are  fascinating.  .  .  .  The  chief  value  of  the  book  lies  in  its 
felicitous  expression  of  the  point  of  view  of  a  scholar  and  lover  of  books,  who  is  no  book- 
worm or  dilettante.  To  read  the  opinions  of  such  a  man,  who  never  judges  a  book  by 
book-knowledse,  is  most  salutary." 

DAILY  CHRONICLE.  — "  It  is  a  remarkable  thing,  and  probably  unique,  that  a 
writer  of  such  personality  as  the  author  of  '  Between  the  Acts'  should  not  only  feel,  but 
boldly  put  on  paper,  his  homage  and  complete  subjection  to  the  genius  of  one  after 
another  of  these  men.  He  is  entirely  free  from  that  one  common  virtue  of  critics,  which 
is  superiority  to  the  author  criticised.  Thus,  in  turn,  he  here  submits  himself,  not 
without  humour,  to  the  very  style  of  William  Morris,  of  Thomas  Browne,  of  Mr.  Belloc, 
and  produces  masterly  appreciations  by  means  of  discreet  parodies  of  their  work." 

DAILY  NEWS. — "  His  own  criticism  of  Mr.  Hardy  could  be  applied  to  himself. 
He  also  is  full  of  the  pity  of  mortality,  full  of  its  laughter  and  amazing  ways." 

DAILY  TELEGRAPH. — "  Mr.  Nevinson's  essays  are  discriminating  as  they  are 
appreciative.  The  general  reader  will  like  them,  for  they  are  neither  over-learned  nor 
over-critical,  easily  written,  and  distinctly  pleasing  and  popular." 


JOHN  LANE,  PUBLISHER,  LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  LIFE  &'  LETTERS 

OF  R.  S.  HAWKER 

SOMETIME  VICAR  OF  MORWENSTOW 

By    HIS    Son-in-Law,    C.    E.    BYLES 

IVi^/i  numerous  Illustrations  ^  including  Lithographs  by  J.  Ley  Pethybridge, 

Two  Sketches  by  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  reproductions  fro7n 

contemporary  Prints,  Portraits,  Photographs,  cr-v. 

Price  2IS.  net.  Demy  8vo.  Price  $3.50  net. 

TIMESa — "Dr.  Johnson's  wrath  at  the  suggestion  that  a  friend's  eccentricity  of 
dress  and  religion  should  be  counted  to  him  for  madness,  is  a  matter  of  history'.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Byles  has  abetter  case  than  Dr.  Johnson  had,  and  his  effort  to  disprove  the  charge  re- 
sults in  ...  a  triumphant  acquittal.  A  well-written  life  is  not,  as  Carlyle  declared  it  to 
be,  almost  as  rare  as  a  well-spent  one  :  it  is  a  much  rarer  thing  indeed.  Mr.  Byles  has 
given  us  a  book  which  will  earn  the  gratitude  of  those  whose  love  of  poetry  urges  them 
to  a  knowledge  of  the  poet." 

ATHEN>EUM. — "An  authoritative  and  satisfactory  biography.  Mr.  Byles  has 
performed  his  task — by  no  means  an  easy  one — with  skill  and  good  taste.  The  book  has 
evidently  been  with  him,  as  with  his  publisher,  a  genuine  labour  of  love." 

OUTLOOK. — "  Hawker,  though  the  fact  is  only  now  beginning  to  be  recognised, 
was  one  of  the  few  real  poets  of  his  generation,  and  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  the  poets 
who  have  also  been  clergymen  of  the  Church  of  England  ;  greater  than  Heber,  greater 
than  Keble,  greater  than  John  Henry  Newman,  greater  even  than  George  Herbert.  This 
admirable  biography  will  be  doubly  welcome  if  it  wins  a  larger  public  for  his  writings." 

MORNING    POST.—"  Gratitude  is  distinctly  due  to  Mr.  Byles." 

DAILY   CHRONICLE.— "This  admirable  memoir." 

ACADEMY. —  "His  fragment  of  the  '  Sangraal '  is  worthy  to  be  compared  with 
Tennyson's." 

/ 

EMILE  ZOLA:  Novelist  ©"Reformer 

an  account  of  his  life,  work,  and  influence 

By  E.  a.  VIZETELLY 

With  numerous  Ilhistrations,  Portraits,  o^c. 
Price  21S.  net.  Demy  8vo.  Price  83.50  net. 

TIMES. — "  Mr.  Vizetelly  has  the  faculty  of  telling  a  straightforward  story  in  an 

interesting  manner,  and  he  probably  knew  Zola  better  than  any  other  Englishman." 
DAILY  TELEGRAPH. — "  Extremely  interesting  and  comprehensive." 
Mr.  O'Connor  in  T.P.'s  WEEKLY. — "It  is  a  story  of  fascinating  interest,  and 

it  is  told  admirably  by  Mr.  Vizetelly." 

WESTMINSTER   GAZETTE.— "This  fine  volume  .  .  .  will  be  read  eagerly." 
ACADEMY. — "  It  was  inevitable  that  the  authoritative  life  of  Zola  should  be  from 

the  pen  of  E.  A.  Vizetelly.   ...  A  worthy  tribute  to  the  genius  of  the  master." 

ATHEN/EUM. — "It  is  our  duty  to  congratulate  Mr.  Vizetelly  on  his  exhaustive 

and  interesting  account  of  Zcla's  life  and  labours,  and  to  pay  homage  to  his  devotion  to 

the  memory  of  his  departed  friend." 

DAILY  CHRONICLE.— "Told  faithfully,  sympathetically,  and  with  no  little 

charm." 

DAILY   GRAPHIC.—"  Mr.  Vizetelly  may  be  congratulated  on  his  achievement." 
DAILY    MAIL. — "  Interesting  and  straightforward.  ...  It  bears  the  weight  of 

indisputable  authority." 

DAILY    NEWS. — "A  volume  of  singular,  in  places  of  quite  absorbing,  interest." 

OUTLOOK.—"  Mr.  Vizetelly  must  be  congratulated." 

PALL    MALL   GAZETTE. — "  A  picture  of  the  man  as  he  was." 

ST.   JAMES'S   GAZETTE.—"  Mr.  Vizetelly  has  done  his  work  capitally.     This 

book  deserves  to  be  widely  read." 

STANDARD. — "A  veritable  human  document." 

JOHN  LANE,  PUBLISHER,  LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK 


WALT   WHITMAN:   An  Essay 

WITH  A  SELECTION  FROM  HIS  WRITINGS 

By   EDMOND   holmes 

Price  3s.  6d.  net.  Small  4to.  Price  $1.25  net. 

LITERATURE. — •'  Mr.  Holmes  has  a  faculty  of  sane  and  temperate  criticism 
which  is  as  uncommon  as  praiseworthy.  We  can  recommend  him  as  a  safe  and  compe- 
tent guide  to  any  one  who  wishes  to  begin  an  acquaintance  with  the  poet  of  the  democracy 
and  his  works." 

PILOT. — "  His  book  illuminates  more  than  its  immediate  subject." 

SATURDAY   REVIEW.—"  Full  of  profoundly  suggestive  and  really  illumining 

remarks  expressed  with  eloquence  and  fervour." 

LITERARY  WORLD.—"  Mr.  Holmes  writes  sympathetically,  yet  sanely,  of  the 
peculiar  qualities  of  Walt  Whitman's  poetrj.  .  .  .  The  genuine  desire  of  Mr.  Holmes, 
that  Walt  Whitman  should  be  more  widely  understood  and  appreciated,  is  shown  by  the 
excellent  selections  from  his  poems  included  in  this  volume." 


ROBERT    BROWNING: 

ESSAYS   AND    THOUGHTS 
By    J.    T.    NETTLESHIP 

WITH  PORTRAIT.  SECOND  EDITION. 

Crown  8vo.     7s.  6d.  net. 

The  present  edition  is  more  than  doubled  in  size, 
containing  additional  essays,  dealing  with  poems 
which  have  appeared  since  the  publication  of  the 
first  volume. 

ACADEMY. — "  Mr.  Nettleship  has  made  us  realise  the  true  depth  and  breadth  of 
the  philosophy  which  underlies  the  vast  and  varied  body  of  Browning's  poetical  work." 

LITERARY  WORLD. — "The  work  of  an  accomplished  scholar,  a  keen  critic.  It 
must  hold  ;4  very  high  place  among  the  studies  of  Browning." 

ATHEN/EUM.— "Mr.  Nettleship's  thoughtful  volume." 

DAILY  NEWS. — "  The  work  of  years  of  the  most  devoted  application.  The  most 
careless  reader  of  these  essays  must  be  convinced  that  he  has  been  conducted  into  the 
presence  of  a  sovereign  genius." 

TATLER'S  LITERARY  NOTES. — "Among  the  best  criticisms  of  poetry  ever 
written.     Of  all  books  on  Browning  its  criticism  is  the  sanest,  its  style  the  clearest." 


JOHN  LANE,  PUBLISHER,  LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  WORKS   OF 
ANATOLE  FRANCE 

1  has  long  been  a  reproach  to 
England  that  only  one  volume 
by  ANATOLE  FRANCE 
has  been  adequately  rendered 
into  English  ;  yet  outside  this 
country  he  shares  with 
TOLSTOI  the  distinction 
of  being  the  greatest  and  most  daring 
student  of  humanity  living. 

V  There  have  been  many  difficulties  to 
encounter  in  completing  arrangements  for  a 
uniform  edition,  though  perhaps  the  chief  bar- 
rier to  publication  here  has  been  the  fact  that 
his  writings  are  not  for  babes — but  for  men 
and  the  mothers  of  men.  Indeed,  some  of  his 
Eastern  romances  are  written  with  biblical  can- 
dour. **  I  have  sought  truth  strenuously,"  he 
tells  us,  "  I  have  met  her  boldly.  I  have  never 
turned    from    her    even    when    she     wore    an 


THE  WORKS  OF  ANATOLE  FRANCE 

unexpected  aspect."  Still,  it  is  believed  that  the  day  has 
come  for  giving  English  versions  of  all  his  imaginative 
w^orks,  as  well  as  of  his  monumental  study  JOAN  OF 
ARC,  which  is  undoubtedly  the  most  discussed  book  in  the 
world  of  letters  to-day. 

f  MR.  JOHN  LANE  has  pleasure  in  announcing  that 
the  following  volumes  are  either  already  published  or  are 
passing  through  the  press. 

THE  RED  LILY 

MOTHER  OF  PEARL 

THE  GARDEN  QF  EPICURUS 

THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 

BALTHASAR 

THE  WELL  OF  ST.  CLARE 

THAIS 

THE  WHITE  STONE 

PENGUIN  ISLAND 

THE  MERRIE  TALES  OF  JACQUES  TOURNE- 

BROCHE 
JOCASTA  AND  THE  FAMISHED  CAT 
THE  ELM  TREE  ON  THE  MALL 
THE  WICKER-WORK  WOMAN 
AT  THE   SIGN  OF  THE  QUEEN  PEDAUQUE 
THE  OPINIONS  OF  JEROME  COIGNARD 
MY  FRIEND'S  BOOK 
THE  ASPIRATIONS  OF  JEAN  SERVIEN 
JOAN  OF  ARC  (2  vols.) 

H  All  the  books  will  be  published  at  6/-  each  with  the 
exception  of  JOAN  OF  ARC,  which  will  be  25/-  net 
the  two  volumes,  with  eight  Illustrations. 

^  The  format  of  the  volumes  leaves  little  to  be  desired. 
The  size  is  Demy  8vo  (9  X  5|),  and  they  arc  printed  from 
Caslon  type  upon  a  paper  light  in  weight  and  strong  of 
texture,  with  a  cover  design  in  crimson  and  gold,  a  gilt  top, 
end-papers  from  designs  by  Aubrey  Beardsley  and  initials  by 
Henry  Ospovat.  In  short,  these  are  volumes  for  the  biblio- 
phile as  well  as  the  lover  of  fiction,  and  form  perhaps  the 
cheapest  library  edition  of  copyright  novels  ever  published, 
for  the  price  is  only  that  of  an  ordinary  novel 

H  The  translation  of  these  books  has  been  entrusted  to 
such  competent  French  scholars  as  MR.  Alfred  allinson, 

MR.     FREDERIC     CHAPMAN.    MR.    ROBERT     B.     DOUGLAS, 


THE  WORKS  OF  ANATOLE  FRANCE 

MR.  A.  W.  EVANS,  MRS.  FARLEY,  MR.  LAFCADIO  HEARN, 
MRS.  W.  S.  JACKSON,  MRS.  JOHN  LANE,  MRS.  NEWMARCH, 
MR.  C.  E.  ROCHE,  MISS  WINIFRED  STEPHENS,  and  MISS 
M.  P.  WILLCOCKS. 

^  As  Anatole  Thibault,  dit  Anatole  France,  is  to  most 
English  readers  merely  a  name,  it  will  be  well  to  state  that 
he  was  born  in  1 844  in  the  picturesque  and  inspiring 
surroundings  of  an  old  bookshop  on  the  Quai  Voltaire, 
Paris,  kept  by  his  father.  Monsieur  Thibault,  an  authority  on 
eighteenth-century  history,  from  whom  the  boy  caught  the 
passion  for  the  principles  of  the  Revolution,  while  from  his 
mother  he  was  learning  to  love  the  ascetic  ideals  chronicled 
in  the  Lives  of  the  Saints.  He  was  schooled  with  the  lovers 
of  old  books,  missals  and  manuscripts  ;  he  matriculated  on  the 
Quais  with  the  old  Jewish  dealers  of  curios  and  objeis  d'art ; 
he  graduated  in  the  great  university  of  life  and  experience. 
It  will  be  recognised  that  all  his  work  is  permeated  by  his 
youthful  impressions ;  he  is,  in  fact,  a  virtuoso  at  large. 

%  He  has  written  about  thirty  volumes  of  fiction.  His 
first  novel  was  JOCASTA  ^  THE  FAMISHED  CAT 
(1879).  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 
appeared  in  1881,  and  had  the  distinction  of  being  crowned 
by  the  French  Academy,  into  which  he  was  received  in  1896. 

^  His  work  is  illuminated  with  style,  scholarship,  and 
psychology  ;  but  its  outstanding  features  are  the  lambent  wit, 
the  gay  mockery,  the  genial  irony  with  which  he  touches  every 
subject  he  treats.  But  the  wit  is  never  malicious,  the  mockery 
never  derisive,  the  irony  never  barbed.  To  quote  from  his  own 
GARDEN  OF  EPICURUS  :  "  Irony  and  Pity  are  both  of 
good  counsel ;  the  first  with  her  smiles  makes  life  agreeable, 
the  other  sanctifies  it  to  us  with  her  tears.  The  Irony  I 
invoke  is  no  cruel  deity.  She  mocks  neither  love  nor 
beauty.  She  is  gentle  and  kindly  disposed.  Her  mirth 
disarms  anger  and  it  is  she  teaches  us  to  laugh  at  rogues  and 
fools  whom  but  for  her  we  might  be  so  weak  as  to  hate." 

IT  Often  he  shows  how  divine  humanity  triumphs  over 
mere  asceticism,  and  with  entire  reverence ;  indeed,  he 
might  be  described  as  an  ascetic  overflowing  with  humanity, 
just  as  he  has  been  termed  a  "  pagan,  but  a  pagan 
constantly  haunted  by  the  pre-occupation  of  Christ." 
He  is  in  turn — like  his  own  Choulette  in  THE  RED 
LILY — saintly  and  Rabelaisian,  yet  without  incongruity. 


*<'^- 


THE  WORKS  OF  ANATOLE  FRANCE 

At  all  times  he  is  the  unrelenting  foe  of  superstition  and 
hypocrisy.  Of  himself  he  once  modestly  said  :  "  You  will  find 
in  my  writings  perfect  sincerity  (lying  demands  a  talent  I  do 
not  possess),  much  indulgence,  and  some  natural  affection  for 
the  beautiful  and  good." 

fl  The  mere  extent  of  an  author's  popularity  is  perhaps  a 
poor  argument,  yet  it  is  significant  that  two  books  by  this 
author  are  in  their  HUNDRED  AND  TENTH  THOU- 
SAND,and  numbersof  them  well  intotheir  SEVENTIETH 
THOUSAND,  whilst  the  one  which  a  Frenchman  recently 
described  as  "  Monsieur  France's  most  arid  book"  is  in  its 
FIFTY-EIGHTH  THOUSAND. 

f  Inasmuch  as  M.  FRANCE'S  ONLY  contribution  to 
an  English  periodical  appeared  in  THE  YELLOW  BOOK, 
vol.  v.,  April  1895,  together  with  the  first  important  English 
appreciation  of  his  work  from  the  pen  of  the  Hon.  Maurice 
Baring,  it  is  peculiarly  appropriate  that  the  English  edition 
of  his  works  should  be  issued  from  the  Bodlev  Head. 

ORDER  FORM 

190 

To  Mr. 

Bookse/Ier 

Please  send  me  the  follovoing  works  oj  Anatole  France  : 

THE  RED  LILY 
MOTHER  OF  PEARL 
THE  GARDEN  OF  EPICURUS 
THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD 
BALTHASAR 

THE  WELL  OF  ST.  CLARE 
THAIS 

THE  WHITE  STONE 
PENGUIN  ISLAND 

THE  MERRIE  TALES  OF  JACQUES  TOURNE- 
BROCHE 

for  which  I  enclose - 


JOHN  LANE,Publi8her,Thb  Bodley  Head,Vigo  St.  London,  W. 


14  DAY  TT^P 

RBTXmN  TO  DESK  FKOM  ^^S,  BORROWBD 

LOAN  DEPT. 

J^f^^^^dbooks  are  sub/ect  to  u„„,ediate  tecaU. 


L-D  2lA-50m-8.'61 
(Cl795sl0)476B 


,T„. General  Library 

University  of  California 
-tferkeley 


'A 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


